


F-Zero CV: Circuit of Darkness

by Mild_Guy



Category: Super Smash Brothers
Genre: Action, Bisexual Male Character, Blood and Violence, Enemies to Partners to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Family Drama, Light Angst, Magic, Male Slash, Mild Smut, Multi, Novel, One Year After F-Zero GX, Racing, Science Fiction, Self-Doubt, Superpowers, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 103,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24599128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mild_Guy/pseuds/Mild_Guy
Summary: Dracula resurrects in Mute City and he's here to race F-Zero! The death toll is rising, sending Alucard and Captain Falcon on an action packed mission to save the galaxy. Clashing personalities and angst force the two heroes to choose between learning to rely on each other, or surrendering everything to the darkness. Set between Smash 4 and Ultimate.
Relationships: Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Captain Falcon (F-Zero)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 12





	1. Devil's Call In Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgments: Thanks to Plissken The Serpent for the last minute assist.
> 
> Author's Note: Please do not copy or distribute this story without my consent.
> 
> I dedicate this story to El Nino1. Much love and strength, brother. Marth/Roy forever!

* * *

“What need for the shepherd when the wolves have all gone...”  
— Castlevania: Symphony of the Night

“I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air.”  
— Bram Stoker, Dracula

* * *

A legend roared through the glowing streets of Mute City. That storm haunted city, that endless buzzing city, that million-fold hive spanning horizon to horizon without break or pause, where skyhigh towers bathed in the hell light of red hot heat sinks sponging away the shivering thermal waste of a billion lives.

When a thousand rivals cast down a thousand gauntlets, when countless zealots cheered their throats apart, he appeared, summoned forth from secret lairs to set the galactic circuits afire, and stomp the skulls of the powerful and the wicked beneath his winged boots.

Deep he plunged into the city's black underbelly, into shadowed places smeared with neon light and trash smoke, into undergrids foul with the smell of death, pounding with the heart beat of close-packed multitudes. He stormed the dens of the most hardened criminals, stalked the most-wanted scum, and toppled the platinum strongholds of the untouchable rich who thought themselves inviolate.

This rich soil of city life, which sprouted new subcultures and entombed the old every passing second, was his garden of delights. He sought the finest food, the best music, the coldest, most beautiful courtesans that he might sate appetites worthy of gods.

Hither came this raptor of fire to love, to glory, to war, to whore, to right wrongs and deliver justice on swift wings.

Mute City denizens hissed his name between teeth gritted against the agony of shattered bones. Citizens of the Federation whispered it with admiration. Fearful prey screamed it. Hot with righteous indignation, enemies cursed it. By earnest prayer, fanatics invoked it―the name of Falcon.

And they remembered.

* * *

Soma sat alone in the diner, nursing a coffee he did not care to drink. The last of his friends had bid their farewells and resumed their bar crawl. They left behind a stack of dirty plates. The young man's plate remained full, the cricket-turkey sandwich and fries cold and untouched.

Thunder shook the restaurant, striking a chime from every plate and glass drying in their racks. Tonight, a black sky loomed over the Old Quadrant, stiff with pollution and marbled by a constant cannonade of static lightning. Mute City natives soon grew used to the constant rumble of rioting ions overhead. Visitors soon discovered there was little difference between night and day in Mute City. It mattered not to Alucard, who felt the night's presence no matter the location or circumstance. And on the train of the night's starry gown rode the familiar pack of old hungers.

In a rarity for any eatery in the super-populated gigacity, the diner was nearly empty, with an elderly couple huddled over their lukewarm soup stock at the other end of the dining area, a lone server lounging with her phone behind the counter, and a cook in back working alongside a dish-washing robot. Few witnesses, few potential casualties. Not ideal, but a more likely spot to catch Soma alone he would not find tonight.

Alucard tried to derive some comfort from the young man's hesitation to leave. On this night, of all nights, the dark callings in his mind would scream their loudest. Yet, Soma idled. Perhaps the youth did not yet fully comprehend the deeds demanded of him on this unholy sabbath and new awareness of that ignorance left him paralyzed with nameless dread. Or perhaps he thought little of the sinister nature of that which the ancient voice of his blood bid him perform on this blasphemous holiday, and he only lingered until the time was right.

The bright light of fear stole into the young man's eyes as Alucard slipped into the booth, facing him across the table. Chain thunder rattled the diner windows.

"Soma.” He removed his gloves and set long, pale hands down on the splotched tabletop. "A horrible night to have a curse, is it not?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“You do not know me, but I know you. I have monitored the exploits of your family for centuries. I come this night to save your life, and the lives of all you hold dear."

Soma looked to the exit. "Beat it, mutant. Before I call the cops," he spat.

He rose to leave, but Alucard's hand shot out and pressed him back down. The waitress behind the counter pretended not to notice what her customers were doing. Common practice for a dive such as this. As long as they didn’t disrupt business there’d be no interference from that quarter.

"It is an enduring truth down through the ages, that the police are more trouble than they’re worth. This is too important to allow any interruptions. Something haunts you. Unholy mouths whisper dark commandments inside your mind you dare not contemplate. Voices you cannot tell anyone about for fear they'll think you mad. You're not insane, Soma. And now you're not alone. Let me help you."

“You're right about one thing. There's a mental case sitting at this table, and it isn't me.” Soma glowered, shoulders hunched with tension, but he made no move to leave. White foundation caked thick around his eyes had begun to crack.

“Your actions belie your words. How long has it been since you could stand to close your eyes while alone in a darkened room? When was the last day cycle you enjoyed real sleep? You can no longer stomach food, or sit still, or talk to friends without glancing over your shoulder. The presence within you will not allow a moment’s peace until it has what it wants.'' Lightning flared through the windows bright enough to drown the diner lighting, casting their faces for an instant in stark profiles of utter darkness and white flame. ''How much have you learned of your lineage?”

Soma smoothed his silver hair back with one hand, unable to keep it from sticking up. His eyes shifted rapidly, trying to settle anywhere but on the pale man sitting across the table. “I was raised by foster guardians who cashed my Federation welfare checks while they locked me outside for most of the month cycle to fend for myself. Same as plenty of other kids who grew up in this neighborhood. What’s it to you?” He ran his fingers through his hair again and looked Alucard in the face, searching. “Wait. Shit! You’re going to tell me you’re a blood relative, aren’t you?”

“By a singular, strange degree of separation, yes. I am.”

“Go die in a fire.”

Alucard kept his voice level. With each word he cast a net of influence over Soma, making ready to draw it closed and hoist him up from certain doom. It was risky, telling him this much at once, but prior bungling had cost too much time. Soma had proven difficult to track down amid the teeming multitudes and no time remained. Some directness seemed worth the risk.

“You are the reincarnation of Dracula, King of Vampires, Lord of the Demon Castle.”

“Who?” Soma could not look away now.

“Few historical records remain that mention the name of Dracula. To put it simply, his consciousness is a parasite waiting to take control of your body for his own ends.” And here he hesitated. Twenty-sixth century humanity held little stock in the supernatural. “Some might call it a disembodied soul. It has dwelt within you since birth, passed down from father to son since the first Soma in 2032. I saved his life and the lives of all his descendants Dracula has laid claim to throughout the millennia.”

The smell of rare meat drifted from the kitchen. Someone had laid down a fat stack of credits for the ''Real Deal'' steak special. Alucard's nostrils flared to drag in more of the scent. He saw that Soma's nose did the same.

“And now he’s coming for me?”

“Yes. Dracula has not attempted to resurface for over three centuries. Possibly to throw me off the trail, or perhaps he needed that time to gather the full measure of his power. During the interim I lost track of your family line. It was a close thing finding you now that the hour has grown so late.”

Thunder hammered the air, so deep and angry it seemed to rumble up through the floor, as if a second storm raged far underground. Alucard felt a hard tug on his lines of influence. Soma sneered. “You think you know me? The fuck you know about my life and the shit I've gone through? My real parents, whatever they were, didn’t give a shit about me. And neither did you. Not until I had something you wanted. Now it's time to kick the old man back down the basement stairs and bolt the door before he gets out, and suddenly you're so very concerned about my well being.”

Though Alucard kept his face still, Soma saw something in it that hardened his voice. “Oh yeah, he’s already told me all about you. He says you’re a damn good liar. After this little chat, I have to agree with Drac. Go find a new pet, Adrian. I don’t need another dead beat dad.” Soma twisted in his seat, straining to get free. The net unraveled and fell away.

Alucard shot from the booth and took Soma firmly by the arm. “I regret this rudeness, but I cannot allow you to remain alone tonight. You must see he’s only using you as part of his twisted game. Whatever he’s promised you is a trap.”

“Hey Soma, I forgot to ask you―” One of Soma’s friends stood inside the diner entrance, stopped short by surprise. He was a big, blunt man who saw a stranger manhandling his companion. “The hell’s going on here?”

Soma tried to twist his arm free of Alucard’s grasp and failed. “Dario! This creep’s trying to drag me back to his pedo lair. Get him off me will you?”

Dario cracked his knuckles and grinned. “And here I was just wondering when I'd get to test out my new upgrades. C’mere, punk.”

Alucard shoved Soma under the table and drew a card. An imp familiar appeared in a puff of brimstone vapor. ''Hey hey. It's been a hot minute, boss. Howyadoing?'' it squeaked.

''Contain him,'' Alucard ordered, pointing to Soma.

Dario bulled down the aisle of seats, wearing a cold sneer which said he knew how this exchange would end—blood splattered and victorious. Alucard stared him down and muttered a single, ancient word. A white corona of freezing light encompassed the charging brawler and imploded. He grunted in pain but hurtled on regardless, swinging a wild fist with inhuman speed. The back-hand blow cracked across Alucard's cheekbone. The diner twirled, blurring into streaking colors and jostling shapes. Arms, iron strong, picked Alucard off the floor and launched him into the heady weightlessness of flight. Screams mixed with a symphony of shattering glass. He did not feel the window pane Dario threw him through.

Alucard sprang back to standing before Dario lumbered out onto the street. Pebbles of crystal tumbled off his bespoke office suit and crunched beneath his black leather shoes. While auto-piloted cars blared their horns and edged around him, Alucard drew the thousand years-old sword from its concealed scabbard, hoping the chill glint of enchanted steel would dissuade the bigger man from further fisticuffs.

Dario grinned and rolled up his sleeves. “Anyone ever tell you not to bring a knife to a cyborg fight?” He laughed, arms flexing, the muscles bulging bigger and bigger until the skin parted along built-in seams. What had been supple human limbs a second ago had transformed into aluminum derricks blocky with polyhedral nodes of cobalt blue alloy, veined by bundles of flesh-rubber power cables and bioconduits. Dario bristled with weapon modules, their metal highlighted by the glare of streetlamps. Alucard whispered a curse. Over the last century he had grown to hate bionic men. They always managed to surprise him. Superhuman speed and strength were no longer the sole domain of the vampire.

“That was a cool piece of ordinance you dropped on my ass back there,” said Dario. His 'arms' ticked as they warmed up. “Hook a brother up with the make and model, and I’ll spare your face.”

“It was magic. A simple cantrip.”

“Magic?” Dario chuckled, shaking his head. “That's not any manufacturer I know, and I know them all. You might want to take me bit more seriously. Life turns into a real bitch when you gotta walk around looking like a pile of fried hamburger.”

There wasn’t time for this. He had to keep Soma safe. Cape billowing wide, Alucard fell forward, lines dissolving, form losing all definition until nothing more than mist crawled over the sidewalk.

Dario stared, mouth hanging open. ''The hell? Magic's real? You buy this shit off a military contractor?'' Weapon pods sprayed down the sidewalk and lane with high-yield thermal gel aerosol. Flame proof foam engulfed nearby cars as if they were popcorn kernels in hot oil. Traffic rerouted into the emergency evacuation lane, which immediately clogged up. The mist rolled on, impervious to the extreme heat. The supernatural vapors enveloped Dario. He doubled over, coughing and dribbling mucus. “Damn. Never guessed—kakk!—gas attack!”

Alucard loathed using the poison mist form on a human, even an augmented one, but the stakes of his mission overrode ethical scruples. Alucard rematerialized standing on Dario's convulsing back. A boot to the head sent the cyborg sprawling. Dario licked the street, sending another car veering, horn wailing in protest. He kippered to his feet, face blistered and sizzling from cooking on the still blazing pavement. He found no target to blast. Alucard stepped up behind without a sound and with his long arms reached around and seized the weaponized limbs. Dario thrashed and threw back his head, but could neither shake out of the grapple nor land a hit. Alucard hugged the armcannons against the chest where the weapons' AI could not safely target him through Dario's body. That was often the way of it. The designers of these artificial limbs rarely thought about hostiles utilizing the wielder's body as a shield. Dario kept thrashing, hoping to shake the slim man off his back. The poison had weakened him and soon the cyborg grew winded.

Alucard began to squeeze. Dario screamed as pain sensors fired. The groan of buckling aluminum filled the muggy night air. The ambient noise of Mute City assimilated all these noises into its cacophonous whole. Circuits crunched and lights went out as both arms lost power.

He left Dario in the parking lot, anchored to the dead weight of two useless lumps of metal.

Soma had fled the diner. The imp was gone, leaving only the fractured halves of a tiny pitchfork behind, which dissolved into hell vapor as his master examined them.

Alucard sighed and got down on all fours. It had been ages since circumstances required two transformations in one evening. The old, terrible strength pulsed through him, eager for release. The diner staff and patrons had something new to scream at, their noise uncomfortably loud in his new form's sensitive ears. Smells took on colors, textures. The ribbon of Soma's scent-color unwound away from the booth, out the back door. Alucard loped into the back alley and set off through the steaming streets.

The pedestrians of Mute City cast few glances at the beast running past. Sentient life came in all types and sizes in Mute City. As long as they did not witness magic in the act of application, they seldom gave heed of its result.

Soma's trail led away from the young man's apartment. Where to, then, did he flee? Soma had fallen far under Dracula's influence, and now they both knew of Alucard's intentions. Scant minutes remained before Soma turned to the sinister forces within, gnawing with renewed fervor, and asked them for help. Alucard placed the dark imaginings of what must then happen next out of mind and ran faster.

Several blocks down from the diner, the velvet ribbon of Soma's odor snaked through the open gate of one of Mute City’s rare public parks. Rarer yet, it was a sizable park, at least two city blocks large. Alucard padded silent under the trees. The acid rain had been unkind this year, and many trees bore brown leaves, never to bloom green again. Keeping hold of the scent became a strain the farther in he ventured. The ribbon of smell frayed to a thread, which split into filaments, each of which unraveled into a vast tangle of competing outdoors odors which lurked beneath the city's blanketing stinks. The funk of damp soil, the spices of foliage and moss, the rank odor of stagnated rainwater. He stalked between the trees and through the hedges, staying far from the benches and walkways and the orange buzzing lights of old-fashioned sodium lamps. The park was oddly deserted for such an early hour, without so much as a single mugger or vagabond crouching in the bushes. Unease increased within Alucard, settling like a cold dew on his innards.

The warm scent of lit tallow candles wafted from the park’s shadowed heart. An old yellow smell he had not scented in an age. Nostalgia threatened to invade, until another scent emerged, this one a familiar and constant companion. His throat constricted. It was the salt and iron stink of freshly spilled blood rusting in open air.

Four paws became hands and feet. Alucard stalked with no less stealth than before, scabbard swaying at his hip with nary a rattle, cape fluttering yet never catching on a stray branch.

Ahead, the trees opened into a small clearing. Alucard stepped to the edge and froze. Black candles burned in a circle surrounding an inverted pentagram drawn on trampled grass with white spray paint. Soma stood in the symbol's center, back turned to Alucard. At his feet sprawled the bodies of two men and a woman. Their faces twisted into frozen screams. Ragged holes gaped where their throats had been, their shirts black with blood.

What had they been to Soma? Friends who had put aside their misgivings for his odd behavior and obeyed the summons of a trusted friend, or mere bystanders harvested at random for this grim ritual?

“Oh, Soma. What have you done?” Alucard asked even though the answer was self-evident.

“They never learn,” said the thing inside Soma. He turned and smiled at Alucard, lips splitting from rows of sharp, pink teeth. “Humanity ill needs a savior such as me, yet time and again I'm the one they cry out to for salvation.” A too long arm reached down to stroke the bloodless cheek of a sacrificial victim with its claw. As Dracula talked, Soma's face peeled off in scrolls to reveal a paler, bearded visage beneath.

“Fitting, isn't it, that the most significant act of their lives also proved to be their last. Soma's suffering is at an end. Do not be angry, son. What else could the stunted lives of humans provide them but an ever increasing share of disappointment? And as you see, I am still capable of mercy.”

Alucard drew his sword so fast the steel hummed. He charged his father with all the supernatural celerity available to him. Press the attack now, instinct informed Alucard, before he gathers a greater portion of his strength. Dracula waved a hand and the ground sundered. Alucard tumbled to his knees. A pillar of unholy fire erupted from the fissured earth and engulfed him. He screamed, every inch of skin, every nerve crackling. An instant later, the flames vanished but the agony did not.

“Had they been wise and thought ahead, they might have brought animal offerings on which to break my long fast in their stead. Humans are lazy, thoughtless creatures. Each generation strives to overachieve the glories of their forefathers with but half the effort.”

Alucard bared his fangs and, with a will strong enough to rend titanium, forced his smoking body to rise. The next blow came fast, too fast to see. There was an image, or an impression, of teeth. Great jaws rigged with multitudes of fangs, gaping wide in a face like nothing human. And then the world spun. The sheer force of the strike knocked the wind from his lungs. The sword tumbled from limp hands.

Dracula took hold of his throat mid-flight and flung Alucard into the trunk of an old tree. The impact snapped the ash in half and cracked a few ribs in the bargain. Riddled with splinters, Alucard tried to gain his knees amid the flurry of lashing branches, mouth stretched open, screaming silent on deflated lungs. Nothing passed his lips but a dribble of blood.

Unhurried footsteps approached over soft grass, easy to hear even over the cacophony of a tree falling over and breaking a thousand limbs against the arms of its neighbors on the way down. “You've grown soft, son. I take one sabbatical and meanwhile you forget what real work looks like. Have you finally become one of them in mind, if never in body? Made their low standards your own? You stink of cattle. My latest host, take him for example! Soma was pathetic in his eagerness to thrust his soul into my hands. His sense of relief as I assumed control was palatable.''

He was a young man in pain, who only wanted help, someone to care, Alucard tried to say, but what air he could scrape in did no more than wheeze out. His father heard him all the same.

"In those last minutes he truly hated you,'' said Dracula. "Soma hated you even as he secretly hoped you would save him, knowing all the while you could not. Just like all the other men in his miserable life.”

Alucard gathered the fragments of his power and summoned mana enough to transform into mist, into a bat, into anything that could buy him some space.

“No.” Another blow he didn’t see coming sent him flying. Dracula hit him again midair, and again. And again. Cruel laughter danced on the breeze. The leaves of every tree rustled to his mirth—the dried dead things rustling like the wings of a million stirring cockroaches. Alucard thought he had previously reached the limit of pain and could hurt no more. He had thought wrong. The cold, pebbled face of the ceramic-steel street rushed up to embrace him.

He landed in an alleyway running between the park fence and a block of offices. Here there was no foot or vehicular traffic to interrupt. Just as well. Mute City denizens encountering a stranger under attack were used to looking away and walking on, if they didn't linger nearby for a chance to scavenge a share of the loot. Had they been more enterprising, they might've recorded the violence, and sold the footage to any number of entertainment firms for use in news-product or pornography.

Cheek against the road, Alucard watched helpless as Soma’s mud smeared shoes floated down onto the pavement. The white-gray blade of his sword dipped into view, caught the glare of street lights and reflected it back into his eyes. 

“Until this point you played a good game, son. But your winning streak is over. My strength has grown over the long sleep. Dreaming beyond death I have quested through the shadowed plains which unfurl past the curved lip of the universe, and there have gained much wisdom from those who dwell beyond time. And you… you have remained the same stunted thing throughout the ages. Cease your pointless struggle.”

“Never,” Alucard rasped.

“Ha! You are your mother’s boy. She could never get enough of me and neither can you.”

His father’s fury had left him a shuddering wreck. Alucard braced for the next blow. It came, not as a fist, but as a voice that licked across the fringe of his consciousness like an iron rasp. ''I spare you this once for the sake of her long departed memory. I know you will not listen, but I will say it all the same. Walk away. Find a new purpose. Embrace your birthright and surpass humanity rather than settle for a fraction of their mundane existence. But whatever you do, do it out of my sight. You are not welcome in my house. Oh, and don't forget your sword.''

A human might not have felt so sharp a blade enter, only the cold weight of a foreign body inside of their own, the pain coming in on gradual waves of ebbing shock. Alucard felt everything. Each distinct grain of time and eldritch steel as his father sheathed the sword in the space between neck and shoulder. Alucard fell back, seizing in agony. With what air one lung could provide, he howled. Taking exquisite care, he extracted the blade and sat panting on the street, soaked in his own blood. He had reached the limit of his stamina and combat would be impossible until he had a chance to heal, as no doubt his father intended.

A cold shadow swept over Alucard. Something ponderous and black swelled up to crowd aside the night. The leathery flapping of a thousand bat wings beat the oily, humid air.

Above the park the smog layers twisted into a gyre. The eye of the whirling opened to expose the sky above, where the red rim and blue shadow of a lunar eclipse glared down on Mute City for the first time in many decades. And out from the earth’s shadow upon the lunar surface irregular shapes emerged and descended in a mute swarm. Castlevania, the Demon Castle, constructed itself over the profaned earth, entombing the park under its haphazard bulk. Brick by tile by chain by buttress it grew, the materials floating as if borne on the backs of poltergeists, each part the piece of a great puzzle seeking the place of its best fitting. Soon the dread armies of darkness would once more issue forth from its gates.

Alucard clenched his eyelids, trying to shut out the bitter regret. He dragged his broken body to the nearest manhole and flung aside the cover. Better to chance survival against the things which lived below the city than face the minions of his father.

Swooning from shock was a mercy granted to humans, one denied his cursed race. Alucard endured the agony of his wounds with an unclouded mind. And in these spare seconds, using an intellect unfettered by biological weakness, he planned what must come next. Dracula had returned with a might greater even than what he had possessed of old. In this new battle against his father he required aid. The Belmont line had diluted over the generations into nonexistence. The genealogical histories of the other hunter families were long lost to war, dispersed by the advent of interstellar travel, and buried by the slovenliness of galactic bureaucracy. He would have to search anew in strange, dark corners for a worthy ally.

As Alucard tumbled over the manhole's edge, down into the trickling stygic depths, his thoughts ransacked through the viable candidates for a champion of this age. The short list was very short indeed.


	2. Heart of Fire

The thick air of the gentleman’s club rolled buzzing over his tongue.

“Let me see your face,” the rent girl purred. He couldn’t recall her stage name. Didn’t matter. As long as she knew his. “C’mon. Take off the helmet, just for a second. The girls would shit bricks if I told them I saw Captain Falcon’s face.”

Reclining in a pool of topaz light, Falcon took another swig of warm whiskey from the bottle. Savored the way it burned his throat with a bite hard enough to strip paint. An especially good batch, aged in Mizunara oak barrels. That species of tree didn't live the wild anymore—they grew them in hothouses, which made every bottle expensive. But when you'd won the F-Zero Grand Prix as many times as he had, you could afford the best of anything.

He lounged on the futon, naked to the universe except for his signature racing helmet. He made no motion to remove the headgear.

“So tell them you saw my face.”

She whined in the cutest way possible. “Oh, c'mon! Life's no fun if you never break the rules.”

“Normally, I'd agree.” He swallowed another pull of whiskey. “This rule's special. Besides, wouldn’t be fair to the other girls. The helmet stays on.”

The rent girl made a half-hearted noise of disappointment and continued working the oil into his skin. She cooed over his knotted muscles and growled softly as she kneaded his hairy chest. At each scar, and there were many, she paused to drag the tip of her tongue over the rough flesh before rubbing it down with glossy oil. His cock jumped with each beat of his heart, the head purple from prolonged arousal.

“Corneria or Venom in tonight?"

The rent girl shook her head. “Just me, Zelda, and Lucina.” She smiled, nose wrinkling. “I work the stage with Lucina sometimes. She’s real fun. And hot.” Ah, now he remembered her name. Corrin. Easy to confuse with Corneria.

“Call her in. I've got years of tension to work out of these old muscles.”

“Stop talking shit. You’re not old.”

“Damn straight. Now go get her.”

Lucina not only lived up to the hype, she somersaulted over it, flashing her cleavage the whole while. All four of them danced a mighty fine dance indeed. Broaching another bottle of whiskey, and passing around a vial of uncut GalaxyBrain Zelda had brought to the party, they shook it through two songs before he scooped the women up and spread them out giggling on the futon. For the third song, and the rest that followed, they kept the dancing mostly horizontal, getting down to a whole different tempo. Falcon smashed away until he was sore. No orifice escaped unviolated. The rent girls howled like space banshees and squirmed under and over him like weasels; like tigers; like foxes; like wild horses. Hell, there weren't enough clichéd animal similes in his sex fevered brain to describe how well these girls fucked back. Every time he came, Falcon clutched one or more shivering bodies to his and pushed in as deeply as anatomy would allow, roaring victory in a husked voice.

Hours later he pulled on the racing duds, buckled his belt, and left behind four sweat-slick women in a glowing, contented heap. He grinned, warm with the knowledge that Corrin and friends would waddle into work tomorrow and spread rumors of his greatness far and wide.

In the parking bunker the Blue Falcon Urban model 2 awaited his return, sleek and potent with the promise of speed. The BFU-02 was a streamlined model of his racing machine the Blue Falcon―designed for flitting through the clogged and uncertain city streets. Falcon booted the computer and queried the Federation’s posting board of bounties.

Tomorrow was the Grand Prix qualifier race. This year he had been prequalified. He could sleep in. The cheat night was so far going swell. But he was still hungry. The rent girls and booze had been appetizers; it was time to carve off a slice of the main course. Time to hunt.

Tonight the list ran long. F-Zero competitions drew in the worst alongside the best and everything in-between. More than one of these most-wanted lifeforms were former legit pilots, exiled to the extraterritorial circuits. They were pissed off at the Grand Prix and looking for payback. A good number of listings glowed red, signifying a recently captured bounty. The handle of the hunter claiming the collar marked each bounty, and over half the red listings bore the same name.

Falcon growled. “Damn, Aran. Save some for the rest of us.” He wasn't the only hunter who rang in Grand Prix season with a fistful of raging action.

An unclaimed bounty caught his eye: Arbin Gordon, AKA The Skull. Wanted for three counts of Murder in the First. Post date: yesterday.

The Skull had always been a creepy bastard, but Falcon wouldn't have pegged him for a cold-blooded killer. It put a sour taste in his mouth. Hunter tradition frowned upon collaring a racer on the eve of a Grand Prix. Tradition could go fly off the Fire Field track. Falcon refused to countenance a first-class felony like murder. He expected better of his peers. You killed a man on the track, that was one thing. In F-Zero, you knew what you were getting into. You knew how to defend yourself or you had no business being there. Arbin, as a veteran pilot and a survivor of the First Horrific Grand Finale that put an end to the F-Max races, should damn well know that better than anyone.

Firing the engine, he pondered that it was better this way. Best a fellow F-Zero pilot be the one to bring the Skull in. Falcon had a good idea where to look first.

The BFU-02 shot from the bunker and slipped into the supersonic lane. Falcon swallowed sobriety capsules. A shame to waste the bellyful of good whiskey, but he was a hero, damnit. The galaxy didn't need two F-Zero murderers on the loose tonight.

The atmosphere buckled around the the BFU-02's cerulean shell. He accelerated past Mach 1 and punctured the the atmosphere like a bullet. Faster, faster, until the wind's howls became a monotone scream. Blood hammered in his veins. Space-time shuddered loose and began to flow through his dilated eyes. Outside the windshield the million city lights blue-shifted into ultraviolet. The sobriety capsules were taking their sweet time kicking in. The GalaxyBrain had another hour left.

Traffic thinned. The road grew patchy, uneven as the BFU-02 ascended on a soaring overpass. Though they were still a blur, the buildings below passed through gradients of increasing decrepitude. Street lights, which had lapped the darkened cabin in an even-spaced pulse of yellow light, now licked over Falcon at sporadic intervals. Soon after he drove through unbroken night. Holes opened irregular mouths in the pavement. Falcon weaved around the pits at high speed, and blew right past the busted down 'Road Closed' signs. The overpass came to its abrupt end on an upturned tongue of crumbled pavement and exposed rebar. Falcon increased pressure on the accelerator. The Blue Falcon Urban shot over its lip. For a few sexy seconds, he flew.

G-diffuser arrays set him down gently on the sunken streets of Pitfall district. Gangs of flesh poachers, neurohijackers, and street economists scattered to make way as he picked up speed. Falcon burned a blue line through their turf. Been a while since he last shot through Pitfall. Good to serve a reminder to these scumplugs just who the hell they were dealing with. From the absolute darkness stretching long between the rare operational street lamp, the broad blades of bone saws and polished lenses of nano-admin goggles flashed as they caught the shine from the BFU-02's headlights. Ahead, a wall of tires and rusted steel sprang up to seal off the street. A flick of a switch brought down the car's combat interface. A green targeting grid projected over his face, twisting to track every nudge of the steering column. Thumb brushed over a red button and the barricade vanished in a puff of smoke. There were no more interruptions.

Minutes later, the drive was done. Besides the Spin and Burn Club, there was one other bar the creepy bastard called home: Bloody Tears, the premiere horror-themed nightclub in Mute City.

The BFU-02 he stabled in the nearest parking fortress. No rival's vehicle, hunter or pilot, rested in any of the slots. Strange. First to the mark, and on such an easily located bounty too. Then again, Bloody Tears was on the ass end of the city, in the borderlands of Pitfall. No place for amateurs. Most others likely dismissed this location as too good to be true, too easily guessed. The Skull’s race car, the Sonic Phantom, was parked on the ground level.

Whispers ran up and down the line of would-be clubbers waiting outside Bloody Tears when Falcon marched past and cut into the front of the queue. Some glared, but no one tried to stop him. The doorman began sweating the second he saw who approached. Falcon slipped him a fifty-credit chit and was waved inside.

Bored university students, middle-aged barflies, and a contingent of the cosmo-gothic old guard glumly radiant in white face paint and sparkling black eye liner all milled together under the black lights. Spiked black leather, purple velvet, and silver nose rings were the _de facto_ fashion statements of the week. The music thudded like a dead body dragged down basement stairs. Soundtrack for the evening: groaning bass and screeched lyrics of failure, loss, and the victories of personal flaws over good intentions. Morbid decibels quivered every white cheek and rumbled every bone. Up on the east stage it was Tentacle Tuesday, with a Shumagarian working its many suckered appendages over and through a pallid woman dangling in a suspended leather harness.

Into their midst strode Captain Falcon. His expression grim, big hands balled into fists that could shatter space-time. A gun secured to his hip—dreadful in its unguessed power for none had ever seen the hunter use it and live. A rich musk of malt liquor, sweat, sex, and victory poured off of him. Conversations did not drop away into expectant silence as they did in the movies, but rather intensified. Clubbers squirmed. Rubbed their thighs together. Licked teeth. Shook in fear. Stared, spellbound, or flicked their gaze about in panic. Some made pouting faces of displeasure. They bristled in challenge, yet stopped short of stepping up. No matter how hotly they sneered, or how harshly they murmured insults, the hunter ignored all.

Falcon kept walking. He had eyes on his prey.

At the guest of honor’s table, on a raised dais above the dance floor, the Skull sat alone. Arbin watched Falcon come on, fleshless bone claws grasping a full glass of black wine.

So went the legend: Arbin Gordon hailed from the silver age of the F-Max Grand Prix, when he tore up the tracks in the days of old. Like many racers throughout history, the secret to making the money last eluded him. He grew old but no less desperate. The tragic accident was inevitable. There were no survivors. A mix of black magic and high technology snatched him from death and kept him in the race, the beneficiary of a now defunct corporation’s pet black project.

Right away Falcon noticed something was different about the Skull.

“You’re on fire.”

“Why, thank you, Captain. It means a lot, coming from you. The track has been good to me of late. Oh―”

He pointed a finger bone at the ball of undying red fire enveloping his skull. “You mean this? Heh. I'm glad someone finally noticed. Just had it done yesterday. It’s merely a physical manifestation of my enhanced spiritual power, that’s all. I’ve found a renewed purpose in life, Falcon. I’ve found a new god.”

No trace of good humored banter stained Falcon’s voice. “That’s why you killed those men? Some kind of occult sacrifice?”

The Skull cackled from the depths of his ossified face. “Occult and sacrifice are such loaded words. I prefer the term meta-physical down payment myself. But yes, I did in benighted ritual stab a homeless vagabond to death on an obsidian altar with a saber carved from the bone of an Elder god. And then I did the same for a dozen of his buddies. A few of those bums turned out to be rich people's kids slumming it up, oh me oh my. In the end, they all spent the same. I offered up their gin-laced blood in sacrificial exchange for gifts unspeakable.”

“Why?”

''Why does anyone do anything? Power. After the accident, there wasn't enough of me left to fill a takeout box. In a secret lab I was reborn, then abandoned. My only clues for understanding my new self were fragmented memories of the rituals they'd performed as I lay in the operating cradle, my life struggling to cling to a few bloody bones. Ever since then I've been experimenting with human sacrifice. For years! All I got in return for my sweat and other people's blood was nadda. All that changed last week, when I made a new friend."

''This new god of yours?"

"More like his envoy. He set me straight. Knew all the right tips and tricks to make the magic work, he did. After so long..." He lifted a claw, clenched it until an aura of blue flame engulfed his hand. ''Success is sweet. The results were more than I dared hoped for. Say the word, capt'n. I'll introduce you to him."

Falcon picked up the wine bottle, sniffed it. Expecting a gruesome niche market brew involving blood and ink, he was horrified to discover licorice. He plunked the bottle down as the Skull cackled. "Let's return to the original question, 'cause you still haven't given me a full answer. _Why?_ "

The permanent smile of the Skull dimmed, as if attempting a frown despite no longer possessing the flexible tissues necessary to render a change in expression. He leaned across the table. Eldritch fire erupted from his eye sockets. Arbin hissed, spitting flames between sharp steel teeth. “Because. I. Want. To. Win. I burn with the need to beat you. What else is there, Captain Obvious? We’re tired of you hogging first place year after year.”

“Who's this 'we'?” asked Falcon.

“Heh. Heh. They all want to see you go down, captain. You think I’m the only racer willing to make sacrifices to see that happen?”

The air around Falcon began to shimmer. Thin mists of pity and empathy shrouding over his stormy soul now boiled away before the oncoming heat of his wrath. The patrons of Bloody Tears halted their writhings and cleared the dance floor. Nightlife veterans slid towards the exits.

Falcon spoke in a voice so cold the living fire engulfing Arbin dimmed further with each word. “You, or any pilot who wants to claim my crown has to do one thing, and one thing only. Race better than me. That's it. But you blew all your chances to beat me on the track when you killed outside of it. You’re never going to race again. Step outside, or I’ll drag you out.”

The Skull rattled with fury. He raked claws over the table top, gouging out grooves from the polished wood. “You no longer have what it takes to shake the dust from my bones, old man!”

Falcon’s upper lip curled in contempt. “Show me your moves.”

Hearing this, every spectator in Bloody Tears exploded into action. Patrons shoved each other down to reach the front doors while ignoring the emergency exits. Clubbers vaulted over bar counters or turned over tables for cover. The first few to hole up in the restrooms barred the doors against the frantic pounding and cries of the slow. The Shumagarian slunk away, leaving his partner swaying helpless in the harness.

Uttering an unhallowed screech, the Skull surged up onto the table, clawing for Falcon’s eyes. With breathtaking speed Falcon kicked the table over, spilling Arbin to the floor. “C’mon!” he roared. He kicked the table again, hard enough to launch it and Arbin across the room. The hardwood top rammed Arbin through the black painted wall with a great bang of cracking bones and snapping paneling. Gray dust mushroomed up to coat everything. The motes jigged in the stale air to the beat of the music still blaring from the speakers. Arbin rolled out of the vertical crater and collapsed into a broken heap.

Falcon waited, shaking with pent up battle lust. The bone pile picked itself up and reassembled midair―drumming a marching beat from the dry, hollow notes of bone striking bone. The thing which emerged from the whirling cloud of jagged shapes was a new Arbin like nothing anyone had seen before. There were more bones in the mix than there'd been seconds ago, and they looked larger. Spikes grew from the reforming skull. Dozens of finger bones linked to form giant claws. A hulking demon of bone and fire reared to its taloned feet, more dragon than man. The stench of sulfur filled the club.

“Break the laws of physics all you want. Your ass is still mine,” said Falcon.

Arbin roared. “I’ll kill you with fire!” Enormous jaws unhinged and a gout of flame washed over Falcon. Fire alarm klaxons shrilled as flame smothering foam erupted from dispensers in the ceiling, drowning the flames before they could spread.

Falcon stood unmoved, unburned, and splattered with globs of sea-green foam.

“What! How?” asked the Skull.

“Flame proof pilot's suit,” said Falcon. “Military grade. Essential for surviving wrecks. I never buy anything a sliver below top notch.”

“But c'mon, your face was exposed! That doesn’t even―goddamn, you’re annoying. Whatever. Using my teeth then.” The Skull charged. The floor shook with every step. Some of the hiding patrons screamed or gibbered with newly found insanity. Captain Falcon assumed the stance to deliver a mighty punch. He drew back a clenched fist.

He hesitated.

Falcon looked away from the horror bearing down on him and regarded the balled fist. He flexed the fingers. After a second’s consideration, he broke the stance and relaxed his arm.

“No. You don’t rate it.” Falcon crossed his wrists behind his waist.

This brought the Skull to a staggering halt in the slippery foam. “What are you doing?” he asked. “You can’t be giving up.”

“I’ve lost all respect for you, Gordon. I’m going to take you down with my hands behind my back."

Before the Skull could retort, Falcon took a running jump off the dais. “Faaallllcon Kick!” His size-13 boot blazed with a ruby fire no chemical could quench. Arbin took the boot square between the eyes. Falcon’s leg punched through to the empty brain cavity, burying him to the knee. Fracture lines webbed outwards through the cranium with a brittle creaking. The fireball enveloping the Skull's skull bit through the race suit's leg. Inside Falcon's flesh ghost flames met the radiance of the Falcon Power, and could burn no deeper than to singe off a few leg hairs. Captain Falcon headbutted his prey. Fissures zigzagged out from the puncture vertically, splitting Arbin’s demonic face into jagged halves. Falcon lashed out with his free leg and collapsed an eye socket. Arbin shuddered, sat down.

Falcon kicked free of the skull and proceeded to serve up a blazing beatdown with just his two legs, shattering every joint and snapping every length of bone with ferocious kicks, hands behind his back all the while.

“Stop. Please, stop!”

Falcon hammered away until the split cranium was the only part of the skeleton not ground into bone meal. The unholy fire riding the Skull flickered and snuffed out.

Immobilized, Arbin grew introspective.

“No one appreciates the classics anymore. The timeless things”

Falcon sat by the disembodied head while they waited for the Federation Police to arrive. The quarry was in the bag. The post-hunt blues settled over him. A cold time when all splendor drained from the world and the mind turned in on itself. Falcon hated these flaccid, blue-shaded moments but knew of no way to avoid them. The thrill of the hunt demanded its due toll.

The Skull muttered on. “All the old racers, I mean. The guys who made F-Zero what it is today. Oh sure, there’s a Hall of Fame, when they can scrounge up enough donations to keep it open for another year. But who remembers the glories of yesteryear? Who pays homage to the people who defined this sport? I wanted to win over this current generation—hoped to inspire a couple more after it. Give them something to fondly remember me by. Use my fame to shine a light on a forgotten legacy, ya know? It’s all I ever wanted. For generations I’ve been doing this, and I’ve never won the triple cup.”

Silence. Finally, “Only one man to blame for that.”

“They’ll forget you, too,” said the Skull.

“No. The Falcon soared over the galactic rim and hunted the star clusters long before you were a glimmer in your forefather’s eyes as they looked your foremother up and down across the cooking fire. He was here before this planet we're squatting on crushed itself together, boy. The Falcon was not born and he will not die. The Falcon is timeless. The galaxy will never forget because I won’t let them.”

Arbin managed a dry cackle, echoing inside the hollow skull. “Heh. My god. Heh heh heh. You really believe all that silly shit, don’t you?”

Falcon did not lower himself to honor this scurrilous remark with a reply.

When the sirens grew loud and the dedicated alcoholics filed back in for drinks, out from the emptiness Arbin whispered, “I wish I hadn’t killed all those bums.”

“I know.”


	3. The Tragic Prince

Captain Falcon spotted the castle three blocks north from his Mute City safe house. Or rather it felt like the castle spotted him, crouching as it did in the drifting banks of street steam.

He braked the BFU-02 down to curb crawling speed to better soak it in. This space had been a city park when he passed this way last year. The fortress rose far above the nearby tenets, its towers and parapets and keeps shouldering over the property bounds. And it looked to be built from real stone. Gray and black blocks fitted and mortared one on top of another, great heaps of them capped by roofs of slate and mossy stone tilting at every crazed angle the eye could take in. The highest keep thrust a cone-roofed tower into the churning witch's brew of the perpetual Mute City storm. Down crooked side streets the bulging outcroppings and skewed angles of overhanging gables created the illusion that the castle receded backwards into an endless labyrinth.

A high perimeter wall crowned by iron spikes closed off the property. Only way in was a black gate three men tall. Its spear-tipped bars slotted into an arch of granite bricks, a gargoyle's lichen blotched face grimacing from the capstone. Moss and vine grew freely over the walls, and where the rock stood bare its skin had chipped and flaked under the weight of uncounted centuries.

For all the castle’s grim façade and forbidding defenses, Falcon felt a beckoning tug on the roots of his soul. The castle tempted him to step up to those gates and knock. He would be allowed to enter, to wander those shadowed grounds.

Falcon shook his head and drove on. At the flick of a switch, a basement stairwell at the foot of a drab apartment block dropped away, transforming into a steep ramp. Down the incline, through a winding underground tunnel, into the secret underground garage—home away from home.

It didn't hit, until after parking the BFU-02, what had been so odd... well, oddest, about the new fortress. It was the moon. Off the tip of the tallest tower, through a gap in the storm, shone a crescent moon with an eerie silver light. He shouldn't have been able to see it at all. No one ever saw the moon over Mute City. Only lightning broke through the cloud layers. The sun showed up as a phantom outline on the best of days. They cleared a patch of the sky for F-Zero races and War Memorial Day and that was it, no exceptions. The Grand Prix didn't start for another two weeks. What he'd witnessed this night had been a hologram, he decided. Anyone with the pull to construct a code-violating fantasy home like that on city land would certainly have credits enough to put on a light show now and then. Yet, the image had been so smooth, so real.

Falcon resolved to play tourist later. In his deepest core he was a romantic. The archaic home of stone and mortar appealed to this hidden center. Hell, the owner had gone the distance to artificially age its masonry for that extra bit of verisimilitude. Such devotion to detail demanded admiration. While the exterior might be a mere Gothic shell for a disappointing modern interior, he intended to score himself a tour anyways.

He liked old things. Classic things. It came with being a living legend, an inheritor of a persona passed down from one era to the next. Back at his secret island base in Port Town, he'd devoted whole storerooms to various collections: original pressed records, racing memorabilia, fancy booze, vintage genre films and posters, ancient arms and armor, and of course, cars.

The glow from this latest discovery gave way to darker ponderings as his tired, irritated body reasserted its need for rest. The post-hunt blues rode his shoulders still.

Back at the club, he'd wanted to question Arbin. Find out who his 'new friend' was. Dig to the bottom of the whole sordid mess. But a long time back Falcon had quit that line of business and set thermal charges to all bridges. Saw more justice done as a bounty hunter than he ever had wearing a badge. Collar the guilty; exchange them for pay. Let the cops scramble to investigate, or just do like they usually did and fabricate some evidence to match the requested charges. This time, Gordon had saved them the trouble. The F-Zero Committee would keep this quiet. The case would speed through the court's docket before lunchtime tomorrow. Anti-F-Zero activists wouldn't learn of it until months later, if ever. Nothing more to be done.

Well worn as these slick rationalizations were, they did nothing to blunt guilt's poisonous tumble through his guts. Yeah, guts. Remember those? Even working as a hunter, used to be he never would've left a job so obviously unfinished in the bumbling hands of the police. Not when it involved a pilot and a murder that gruesome. And Arbin's nattering about powers and mysterious allies—the whole affair stank of a deeper rot. Further ugliness was to come. Until someone cracked the case, the body count would rise.

Regardless, the old melancholy had settled in and asserted its rights, blunting any resolve to take action. Maybe tomorrow, Falcon promised to no one as he climbed the secret stairs to the safe house apartment.

Arbin Gordon’s words danced through his mind and would not leave.

_Who remembers the glories of yesteryear?_

_You really believe all that silly shit, don’t you?_

_They’ll forget you, too…_

Foolish thoughts. The Falcon could not be forgotten. One day he would pass on the mantle to a worthy soul. The secret fire would leave him to serve its new steward. Not even a cold comfort, that. Yet that day was not this day. Nor would it be the next.

Even so, the question remained. If he did not seek out that worthy soul now, then when? His was a storied career which had spanned the Federation and the outer arms. He'd met F-Zero pilots representing nearly every inhabited world on the catalog, had tested himself against hundreds of alien challengers, defeating their nastiest villains and their noblest champions, no two of 'em alike, and still Falcon had not meet a viable candidate.

An ugly little voice in the back of his skull chided that no one was young forever, and as base-line humans measured age he'd left young behind several laps ago. The old must leave the hardest work for the young, his father used to say.

No, that was bullshit. After this Grand Prix, he’d intensify his workout, sweat out the weariness and liquor, kill the weakness before it took root and sowed its crop of despair. That’d fix him right up.

But that could wait for another night. Right then the top priority was a hot bath. Loath as he was to sacrifice the valuable hunting and hard drinking time remaining before sunup, a gummy residue of flame suppression chemicals clung to his skin and it was beginning to itch. Tomorrow they ran the qualifier race, with Falcon as guest of honor. The Grand Prix began in two weeks and he had to focus. Entering the apartment, he ran the gauntlet of the inner ring of security measures. Passwords, DNA samples, and retina scans. Privacy assured, he stripped down and secured his weapons.

Naked, he strutted into the bathroom.

A nude man lay soaking in the tub. Tall, athletic, his skin glowed pale white in the neutral spaces between sprawls of purple bruises and the angry red lines of recently closed wounds.

No weapons, at least outside his body, unless he was lying over them. Eyes closed. Muscles lax in full absence of tension.

The bathwater steamed—the bath had just begun.

At this point, several questions crossed Falcon's mind. Besides the usual whats, whys, and whens, foremost was: Who was this dead man? He'd bypassed a lethal rainbow of security just to die wet. All useless now. This asshole had compromised the location of this safe house. All the locks and scanners and automatic laser turrets in the galaxy couldn't save a hunter from grief if his enemies knew where he slept.

Falcon left the bathroom and returned wearing his helmet. Nothing else. If it came to a fight, then it'd be an almost fair match. The mysterious stranger had not budged. The eyes remained shut. Having a free second, Falcon took a more detailed survey. The stranger was easy to look at. A strong, lithe body rested under that mound of injuries. His hair was white as fresh paint. Were circumstances different, Falcon would've done things as he used to while keeping bar. Exchange a little sweet talk over drinks, and if things went well, check the gentleman into a fully furnished lovenasium, strap him down, and put a little color into those cheeks. All four of them. Or maybe skip the romance and just drag him laughing to the dirty alley out back, shove him against the wall, and touch him in all the "wrong" places.

Cycling through several greeting options, Falcon at last selected: "Hey. Wake your ass up!"

The eyes shot open. Gray, almost colorless irises. Falcon scowled down at him, not in the least ashamed that his growing erection pointed straight at the intruder's heart.

"Captain Falcon, I presume? Greatest F-Zero racer of this age? Champion of the small and the wronged?" the stranger asked. Calm, as if they had just met in the Spin and Burn during happy hour.

“No. I’m his biggest fanboy who’s about to lose his foot up your ass. Explain yourself, creep.”

The stranger slid up into a seated position but kept his hands where Falcon could see them. "Pardon my intrusion. Two nights ago I suffered a terrible defeat and required a secure location in which to convalesce. Not able to trust that my own haven remains uncompromised, I decided to make use of yours instead. Unfortunately we've caught one another at an... awkward moment. Again, my apologies.”

''And compromise mine instead. Brilliant. Out of all the safe houses in this city, why mine?"

''Here seemed the most likely place to catch you. We have something of vital importance to discuss. I would've preferred to have this meeting under more dignified circumstances, but my need for safe haven was as great as it was sudden. When the hour grew late and you did not appear for the second consecutive night, I thought to enjoy a bath to ease my aching wounds. Pardon the mess. The plan was to clean it all up before you arrived. At least this saves us time.''

''Oh, don't worry about cleanup. There's about to be a far bigger mess unless you give me one damn good reason not to obliterate you in the next five seconds. Who the hell are you?"

The stranger sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Falcon resented that he could look sexy doing it. “Special Agent Alucard. I have come to ask your aid in a covert assignment of the highest secrecy.”

"Not interested. And I'm not buying what you're selling. You're not like any Fed I've ever had the displeasure of meeting, and I've met a few."

"I can prove what I say.” For the first time, Alucard ran that sharp, gray gaze over the naked body of his quarry. “You’re a hard man to find. Without the access I have to Special Division databases I never would've managed it. By happy chance I guessed correctly from the two possible locations of your safe house we have on file."

At the mention of “locations on file,” Falcon gave the room a quick scan and found what he’d overlooked the first time. A neat square of the stranger’s folded clothing sat atop the toilet lid, and on top of this rested a GF police badge in an open billfold. Careful to keep one eye on the intruder, Falcon eased around the tub and picked the badge up. Sensing the heat of fingers, the card’s display system activated and projected a hologram of the agent’s profile and rank. The 3D picture was a perfect match to the face watching him now, and below that a serial number. No name. The hologram listed no specialties, only a single letter: S.

“If you really have files on me, you'd know my days running errands for chairborne rangers are long over. I hunt bounties and turn them in for cash. Dead or Alive. That’s as close as I come to government work and I won’t ever get closer. You got an official bounty for me?”

Alucard shook his head. His face grew grim, gaze focused on someplace far outside the bathroom walls. “No one else in the Federation knows, and I would keep it that way. It’s my father. Dracula. I cannot defeat him alone this time. I need help.”

“I’ll say. What’s the deal with your old man?”

"He is the Sovereign of the Night, and ruler of all which dwells—" Alucard caught himself, paused to search for words. Falcon's patience continued to dissolve. He had put a fellow pilot in jail, the chemicals on his skin burned with new intensity, and to keep his privacy secure he’d have to clear out this compromised safe house tonight. All in all, this had turned out to be a real shitty pre-race party.

“You can think of my father as both an organized crime syndicate leader and a warlord. The streets will flow with fire and blood in his conquest of the Mute City underworld. Many innocents will die as collateral damage. We must stop him before he launches the first attack.”

A skip in the voice. A refusal to look him in the eye. The affected manner. It all pointed to an obvious truth—Alucard was feeding him a fanciful bedtime story.

''Oh really. And what's he after?"

Alucard swept a hand through the air. “Everything."

Pretty boy had lied, Falcon was sure of it. Enough. This interview was over. Falcon crossed his arms. “I hate a liar. I’ve never even heard of this Dracula guy. If he was anywhere close to as huge as you let on, I’d have caught at least whisper or two by now. There's no bounty, legit or illicit. I don’t even believe that you’re a galaxy cop. And my boner's gone. Time to leave.”

“If it’s money you want, I can pay you better than the Federation.” Alucard showed no indication of leaving the tub.

“It’s not about the money.”

“You will be saving lives.”

The desire for adventure heated anew the coals which Arbin's downfall had doused. It'd been too long since he’d done something crazy, and what this pale hombre was offering sounded like pure crazy. Falcon, despite his better judgment, found himself tempted to blast on down the opening stretch of this strange new racecourse. Which made him doubly suspicious.

“This will make a great drinking story,” said Falcon. He grabbed Alucard’s arm and lifted him clear of the water. “All right lotus blossom, out the window you go.” He began twisting the arm behind Alucard’s back for leverage, but the intruder flexed his muscles and Falcon could wrench the arm no further.

“This is the first and last time you lay a hand on me,” Alucard said coldly.

Falcon laughed. "Easy enough. When I throw you out, stay gone."

In a blur of motion Alucard twisted free of the hold and punched him center of chest. Falcon launched backwards. A great brittle crash―the sound of ceramic tiles snapping over his back. Dust flew everywhere, the helmet visor sparing his eyes. He blinked, brain only now registering he’d been knocked into the wall hard enough to leave a Captain-sized hole. The way his chest hurt it felt like Alucard had just divoted his sternum.

“I must admit this sounds a lunatic’s fantasy, but I have no time for courtship and creative lies. Millions of lives depend on our taking swift action, yet here we fritter opportunity away in boyish posturing. Dracula grows more powerful with every passing moment.”

Falcon extracted himself from the rubble with a grunt, sending up more dust. His whole body was gray with the stuff. “He’s such a big deal, why not just file a report to your buddies in Special Division? If you’re really a special agent, that is.” He brushed tile shards off his shoulders and struck a battle stance.

Alucard’s frown deepened. “I have learned the hard way not to involve governments in our family's affairs. Dracula’s power is seductive, and I fear the Federation would seek to harness that power rather than destroy it.”

Falcon had to admit there was something to that. The Federation Police sweated corruption from every pore. Space Pirates studied the cops for pro tips on how to better go about their work. But who gave a damn about any of that tonight? His engine was hot and growling. A challenge was a challenge. He held his hand out, palm up, and beckoned with his fingers. “C’mon!”

Alucard stared at him for a moment, sizing him up. “I have no interest in fighting you.”

“This ain’t about what you want,” said Falcon. He charged and speared Alucard out of the tub, slamming him against the opposite wall. The slim lunatic let out a pained grunt. Vulnerable after all.

Alucard hooked one leg behind Falcon’s and tripped him. On the way down, Falcon snagged a fistful of white hair and bore them both to the floor. Naked, they strained against each other, each wrestling for leverage. Rolling around they slammed into the bathtub (a sturdy antique with a porcelain finish and bronze griffin's claws for feet). Falcon used the tub side for support to roll himself back on top of Alucard. He pinned Alucard’s shoulders to the floor with one arm and pressed the other forearm onto the lunatic’s throat. Just enough pressure to choke but not to crush and kill. Moisture from his opponent's skin kissed his own, making the grime of the day tacky. Alucard bared his teeth. Instead of eyeteeth he had fangs, long, curved, and out-of-the-box sharp. It was enough of a surprise that Falcon let up the pressure for an instant. Alucard’s jaws snapped at his throat, the tips of the fangs tearing twin streaks across the collar bone. Falcon slammed the "agent's" head against the floor, then released Alucard and backed off into a crouch. His helmet was already scanning for transmitted viruses, nanomachines, or toxin. Falcon ignored the readouts on the visor's HUD, refusing to break concentration on the opponent.

Alucard shot to his feet and advanced slowly. "You insecure, feckless oaf! My confidence in you was tragically misplaced."

Not wanting the Alucard’s hands free, Falcon stepped in and seized his wrists. It was a contest of strength now, and to Falcon’s shock and dismay, the pale bastard was winning. In a second Alucard had forced him nearly down to one knee. This he could not abide. Sucking in great breaths, Falcon brought all his strength to bear. A savage growl spat from between his drawn lips. Blood pooled in his face as the pressure in his veins built. Forcing Alucard’s arms to his sides required more brute strength than any other feat in his entire life. Inch by costly inch, Falcon rose to bend Alucard back. Pallid wrists writhed against his palms, as cool to the touch as cucumbers fresh from a hydro-vat. Alucard resisted with the implacable resilience of old tree roots splitting a boulder. He did not sweat and his skin did not flush with blood. Probably a cyborg. Falcon hated fighting cyborgs.

And then, slowly, the man bowed beneath him began to weaken.

Falcon grunted in triumph. All at once the fearsome resistance vanished. Unable to recover his balance, Falcon met the floor tiles face first. Alucard had vanished. His clothes were gone. A rodent squeak drew his attention to the ceiling. Fluttering around up there was a huge black bat. Stunned, for he had never seen any bats in the wild, Falcon watched as the flying rat fluttered from the bathroom into the unlit bedroom beyond. A moment later Alucard strode back into the light, fully dressed and tugging at the cuffs of an expensive black suit. A black cape with red lining hung off his shoulders. A sword in polished scabbard glistened from his belt.

Back on his feet, Falcon asked, “What the hell are you? Let me guess, I've been fighting your robot double this whole time while you hid, waiting for the chance to jump me. The good ol' bait and switch.”

“Believe what you want,” Alucard said. His deep voice remained level if somewhat tired. A voice too deep for such a lithe frame. “It’s obvious now you must see the severity of Dracula’s threat with your own eyes before you're convinced.” He tossed a card onto the sink. “I can be contacted at this address if you change your mind.” He spun around, cape twirling up into Falcon’s face. "I hope you do. Your brute strength has impressed me, if little else has."

He hated taking cheap shots but this creep had it coming. Falcon balled up his fist and swung. Alucard blinked out of existence like a bad video edit. The punch swung through a cloud of heavy mist instead. The mist swam around him and seeped through what was supposed to be an air-tight window frame, and was gone.

“Huh. Wonder who he buys his magic tricks from.”

A thorough sweep confirmed the safe house was, for the moment, secure. The gunbelt hung within reach from a chair beside the tub, in case there were any interruptions. Falcon fixed himself a fresh bath and sloshed into the hot water with relish, humming a favorite tune. The melancholy had retreated. A premonition had seized him. This was going to be the best Grand Prix ever. Or at least the most interesting.


	4. All Need Is 30 Deaths

Mute City HQ 3rd District of the Federation Police had earned the nickname Hornet's Nest because on the outside it resembled a lumpen hive of concrete cells rising in an octagonal pyramid eighty-stories high. The interior competed with the exterior in ugliness, and which was winning depended on who you asked.

Ask Special Agent Alucard and you'd get a noncommittal grunt, or his pre-canned reply: "Our fortress is easy to defend, functional, and it never changes. Be grateful."

Rapid vampiric healing meant Adrian "Alucard" Tepes felt only a ghost of an ache from the injuries his father had dealt him several nights ago. He walked with flowing grace, evidencing none of the lasting complications a human's joints and sinews might accrue from such a savaging. His body was likewise built for defense, was functional, and it never changed. Unlike the Hornet's Nest, he was beautiful, which his coworkers were fond of reminding him.

_“How does the mysterious Alucard fill up his weekends, anyways?”_

_“Who does your hair? Can I… touch it?”_

_“Evenin' gorgeous. Don't you ever get any UV?”_

_“We should start calling you Salt, 'cause just looking at you makes us thirsty.”_

And so on and so forth. Even Captain Falcon had been somewhat smitten. Not that Alucard's deathless charms had helped when he needed them most. He sighed. Falcon was the name at the top of his shortlist of vampire hunters, and it had ended in firm rejection. That left the more dubious candidates to consider. Which had brought him in today on a rare visit to his office. Through multiple checkpoints, a sonic lift ride, and a goodly stroll through the less used corridors, he at last reached the security desk of his home block.

"Hey, who you betting on placing first in the qualifiers?" asked Nestor as Alucard approached to check in. The red-haired security guard swiveled his chair around to glance over Alucard's badge and hall pass.

Ask Nestor which side of HQ was uglier, and he'd say the outside. "The inside's hideous too, don't get me wrong, but at least indoors I can watch my streams in comfort."

Today his portable wide-screen holomonitor streamed the opening ceremonies for the F-Zero Grand Prix qualifier race. Nestor was a fanatic for F-Zero, frequently gambling on the races. He didn't seem to care that Alucard hadn't shown his face here in months. All he wanted was either an 'insider tip' on the likely winner, or a reaffirmation of the pilot he'd already bet on to win.

"I don't gamble."

Nestor handed back the paperwork. He made an unpleasant wet popping noise in his mouth, gaze already rediverting to the holodisplay. "Damn fine day to start. Octoman's gonna come in first, car number aught-eight. You won't hear it from anyone else but yours truly—bets don't get much safer than this. Give me some credits, and I'll have my bookie put you down for number eight. Act fast, man. It's about to start."

On the stream, the view centered on a chrome and gold podium. Clapping F-Zero Association officials waddled to the side to make room for Captain Falcon, who stepped up to the microphone cluster in full costume. His trademark raptor mien held firm without a whiff of hangover.

"Race hard. I want some real competition this year." Forced laughter from the suits, genuine cheering from the stands.

"Has-been," Nestor mumbled. "Retire already before you embarrass yourself."

Alucard frowned and picked up his briefcase. Slapped in the face by yet another reminder of his recent failure. No matter. The next step awaited. He slipped away before the security guard tried to hook him into another long one-way conversation.

The hallways on this floor were corrugated tunnels bored from a mass of commingled waste metal. Flickering lights cast a murky yellow glow which everyone loathed but Alucard, who was irritated by bright lighting. His office door stood in the middle of a bank of vending machines. The convex wall jutted out to either side of the door jam, cupping the entrance in an alcove of shadow. Perhaps this placement of his office, near the bathrooms and dead center of 'snack row', was a subtle gesture of disrespect by a high-level functionary in a bid to spark rivalry. But unlike most agents Alucard spurned office politics entirely. If they ever fired him, he'd simply wait until every member of the current administration died or got forcefully retired in turn, and then reapply if he still wanted the job back.

A machine offering dried squid and other salty snacks cultivated from vat fisheries had its face plate cut open in a clean circle. Several bags were missing from the vending coils. Alucard opened the door and found Samurai Goroh sitting in his chair, feet up on the desk, wiggling a pick into a drawer lock. A stick of squid jutted from his lips. Seeing he was caught, Goroh sprang up, the thief's tool vanishing behind his back.

“'Bout time you showed up! I'm a busy man with a lot of work that ain't getting done.”

"My apologies. I trust you've reviewed the materials I sent you?" Alucard settled into the chair normally reserved for guests. He no longer wanted to use his own chair, and resolved to submit an order to have it recycled. As for the disrespect, well, if Alucard could convince the bandit to take the job…

“Yeah.” Goroh pulled a memory drive the size of his thumbnail out of a vest pocket and tossed it on the desk. “Not a byte of it made sense. And I'm having second thoughts." Goroh strutted about, bristling and blustering, looking impatient, eyeing things he might snatch. There wasn't much. The office was cramped and barren. Electrical conduits and other assorted pipes routed over the walls and under the ceiling—the only decoration a cheap picture frame on the desk, still holding the manufacturer's stock photo it came with, of a dog playing a guitar. Alucard's real workspace and valuables were secreted elsewhere.

"If this treasure hoard is real, why are half the photos scans of oil paintings and hand-drawn sketches? Where the hell's the floor plan? You can't expect me to go in without at least a map scribbled on a bar napkin."

"Direct photos are hard to obtain. Were it otherwise, I wouldn't need you. And any map I could provide you would be so outdated as to be dangerously misleading, and therefore worse than nothing. The sooner you begin to study the subject in real-time and make your preparations, the better your chances for success."

Goroh snorted. "You're not an easy man to work with. I can see why after all these years you're still stuck in this crap hole office."

"Castlevania is a complex constantly restructuring itself. The location of the books, and the treasure, will have wandered over the years. Rest assured, if you can find the books and deliver them to me whole, you will be well compensated for your troubles. Dracula's family has been accumulating wealth for centuries. Material and intellectual." Alucard tapped the discarded drive containing all the intel he could provide Goroh. Mostly pictures of Castlevania's hidden treasures: the bait. Also a few photos and details on Dracula's logbooks and spellbooks: the true objective.

"What these files show are a mere fraction of a greater whole. I need what's in those bound pages. Take all the treasure you can carry away, I care nothing for it. In addition, your Federation criminal record will be wiped clean. Do you find the terms agreeable?"

Goroh strutted over and leaned in close, his ham hands locking around the armrests of Alucard's chair. He jutted out his chin as if he might wield it to bludgeon his would-be employer in submission. "Cut the shit. This whole thing has 'Too Good To Be True' tattooed all over it. You tell me you just want the books and don't want none of the loot. How do you expect me to believe that? What's the catch?"

Alucard looked hard into the dark lenses of the bandit's racing goggles. Much like Falcon with his helmet, Goroh wore goggles and an antique bomber's headgear everywhere.

Goroh. Family name unknown. Formally a Federation cop like his rival Falcon, though they both retired from the force for different reasons. Goroh bossed around a gang of highwaymen out of Red Canyon, and piloted a stolen vehicle in the F-Zero Grand Prix. For all he purported himself as a remorseless criminal with a heart of crimson sandstone, Goroh never killed the victims of his robberies. Did this reluctance to shed blood betray a hidden reserve of moral fortitude so necessary in a hero? Did the bandit possess the grit to look the true face of evil in its eye and refuse to blink? A thin hope to be sure, but options were limited.

"The catch is that Dracula's private army will strive to slay you on sight, and their weapons are varied and many. The master himself may reserve for you a fate worse than death should you provoke his ire. He is not overly fond of thieves."

The self-coronated bandit king backed off, burping out a half-dozen noises communicating the magnitude of his incredulity. “Psshh, that's every job, man. C'mon, what's the real catch?”

“Only what I've told you already. This will be the greatest challenge you've ever faced.”

Goroh loomed, the opaque goggles cold gleaming. Alucard felt himself being carefully read for the first time since he'd stepped into the room. In turn, Alucard scryed him back. Goroh might have an excellent poker face, but the thoughts spinning about his ice pick mind wrote themselves over the billboard of his forehead. Chief among them was speculation that Alucard might be stupid—the special kind of stupid Federation agents were infamous for. The kind of too-clever, self-sabotaging idiocy that handed a professional thief prime blackmail material. Alucard worked to restrain a smile.

"Suppose I take the loot and leave behind the antique toilet paper collection?"

"Oh, Goroh, even a wasteland yokel who uses his own hand to cleanse himself after every trip to the outhouse knows that information can be more valuable than precious metal. The right information can save your life." Alucard reached down and snapped open the catches on his briefcase.

"That a threat?" The prancing and preening stopped. Goroh stood still, right bicep twitching.

"It's an ominous hint at the likely consequences. The information in those books will allow me to bring down the Dracula crime family. Failure to secure this information will lead directly to reprisals on my life and yours." Alucard took out a pair of black gloves and pulled them on, a gesture that seemed to further unsettle the small time hood.

"Not if Drac never learns who we are." Goroh licked his lower lip. "No one would be tipping him off about my identity, would they?"

"Dracula will know it is I who sent you. By one or by a thousand ways, he will learn of you. All the better reason not to fail."

"This has to be the worst pitch I've ever heard, and in my life I've listened to a few beauties."

"I have never worked… in sales," admitted Alucard.

"Suppose I keep your precious books. Find another buyer for them. What then?"

The desk lamp and ceiling LEDs began to crackle and dim. Somehow, the already smothered Mute City daylight oozing in through the single window's blinds grew all the more sickly. Rustling noises came from this window, and from the door. The pipes strained against their fittings and the walls bowed in, creaking like old wood in the cold of night. Goroh chuffed at what he took for cheap effects, but the laugh lacked force.

Alucard withdrew from the briefcase a longsword, a blade too large to fit inside the container that stored it. Pale blue steel, alloyed with a metal prized from another plane of reality. Its edge harbored a faint red gleam. He laid the sword across his lap.

"I find your line of questioning tiresome. Let's change the subject. This is an heirloom my mother gave me. As a swordsman yourself, I desired to hear your appraisal. In this age, there are so few of us aficionados of the blade."

Goroh sneered, backpedaling towards the exit. "I rate it a solid zero. It stinks, like your deal. Stick it back up your ass, along with your amateur-hour threats. Nobody sets up Goroh and lives. You're lucky I'm letting you off with a warning." He tried the door, found it locked. Goroh threw his shoulder into it and bounced off. He wheeled on Alucard, who had just slid out of his chair, sword raised in an easy grip.

"You got balls, trying to take me out in your own office. Come and try it then!" Goroh gripped the backup sword hidden in his pants leg. A cruder weapon than his main katana. Industrial-grade printed diamond steel with no hand guard. The youths of Mute City's many slums called such weapons toe clippers, or box cutters.

Goroh swished the toe clipper in the air, pretending to flail with no skill. But Alucard noted the way he set his feet with a duelist's skill, weight balanced, one foot set back to enable a nimble dodge via fluid footwork.

Alucard vanished in a red glare. Goroh froze, an edge of burning ice tickling his neck. He dropped the clipper.

"To answer your questions," Alucard breathed in his ear, "any other buyer you approach will be me with another name, another face. I will swindle you and you will not then get your pardon. You attempt to blackmail me, I will vanish like smoke on the wind and leave you to the mercies of a vengeful crime lord and a corrupt police force angry they haven't received their cut. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't need Dracula to act as my proxy. You wonder if I'm treating you like an expendable resource, sending you on a suicide mission, yes? Then you have appraised the situation correctly. The rewards are great but your chances are slim. You fail, I'll find another to try. I have already arranged for your name to reach Dracula's ears. Accept or not, the mission has begun. How it ends is up to you."

"Bastard. At least you're honest." Goroh's voice had turned gravely with irrepressible fury. Good. The more anger, the less room for fear.

"Then believe me when I say I will fight to protect you, should you escape Castlevania with books in hand."

"Promises, promises. Go to hell."

"Captain Falcon has already turned me down. Your rival was also too terrified to try."

"Bull—"

"Ask him yourself if you don't believe me. Of course I approached him first. He is braver and more capable than you."

"Now you're revealing your ignorance. Fine." Goroh slapped the sword away. He plucked up his street blade and sheathed it, strutting to the door. "I'll try it. But I'll be doing it my way. Treasure first, books second, if at all."

Alucard likewise put away his sword. "Work however you wish. I only care about the results."

The office lightened. Goroh tried the door knob and found it worked. He spat on the carpet. "Never shoulda agreed to step foot in this sty." In an instant he was out the door. Muffled by the walls came the slamming of a jostled vending machine, and the rustle of falling food packets. Goroh's cackle faded like the howling desert wind fleeing before the calm of an oncoming storm.

For a time, Alucard sat, regarding his heirloom. He should not have bared his family's sword when the raw strength of his bare fist would've been enough to intimidate the highwayman. The Alucard sword summoned up memories that would consume his time and energy. Let reflections of the past stay buried, for at least a while longer.

Polished metal reflected his eyes, drew in the gaze. Too late to flee. Alucard sank into the sword, down into cool cobalt depths where he could hear the voices of the lives the edge had claimed, the screams of a woman suffering the worst agony, the idiot glee of triumphant fools.

Finished packing up, Alucard locked his office. Outside, Nestor's holoset was blaring. Going by the audio, the qualifying race had not yet begun, filling the dead time before Go!! with the usual preliminary hype reels and interviews.

"I wish they didn't show all this filler crap," Nestor whined, raptly absorbing every detail of the stream. His head turned, catching sight of Alucard before he could stealthily slip past. "This stuff's all on the web, minus the simp commentary."

Alucard shrugged and decided he could indulge in further rudeness today. He resumed walking away, saying, "How trying for you. Perhaps you could read a book or take in some pornography while you wait for the race to begin. Sorry, I must be going."

"Aw, I can't do that stuff while I'm at work. It's against the rules," said Nestor, turning back to watch. "You're going to regret it if you don't put something down on Octoman, I'm telling ya man."

"Enjoy," Alucard muttered.

The boisterous exclamations of Mr. Zero, the official announcer for all major F-Zero events, chased Alucard to the lifts. He pressed the down button and did his best to block out the voice.

"—is sadly unable to participate, as he's currently waiting arraignment for the crime of murder. Fret not, race fans! We have a last minute substitute pilot today, a complete unknown who will take the Skull's place. Here he is now. What's your handle, mysterious stranger?"

"Huh. Never seen this guy before," Nestor said aloud to no one in particular.

The lift arrived, the doors tearing open with a pop and a hiss.

"The moniker of Shadow Lord will suffice for now. Thank you for inviting me to participate in your competition."

The newcomer's voice halted Alucard mid-step over the lift threshold. He recognized that voice. He had heard it mere days ago.

"Careful, the Black Shadow might take offense if he thinks you're ripping him off." Mr. Zero sounded the slightest bit nervous.

"If that happens, I am sure we can work out the matter over a strong drink like gentlemen."

The displaced air of Alucard's swift return to the security desk sent loose documents fluttering up like frightened birds. Nestor jumped a little to find the special agent standing beside him when he had been a dozen meters away a second before. Alucard pressed against the safety crystal to glare intently at the holodisplay with wide, white eyes rimmed in red.

"Uhh… you know this guy, Card?"

"If you say so," rejoined Mr. Zero, leaning heavily into a disbelieving tone. "Well then, we're seconds away from the flag. Any last words on how well you think your maiden race will go? Or just last words in general?"

"Ha! I find your cheek amusing. I will only admit I expect to survive the day. At the risk of boasting, I must say…" Dracula, disguised in a crimson cape and black ballroom mask, looked away from the announcer, towards the camera, locking gaze with Alucard over the live stream. "I am a hard one to kill."

Alucard drew in a long breath with a sustained hiss. Ignoring Nestor's repeated questions, he asked, "How far away is this track from here?"

The security guard shrugged, sheepishly grinning. "Gee, agent. It's not even on this planet. They're holding the qualifiers on Death Wind this year." He glanced back to the holoscreen, calculating a rough estimate. "Even if they let you take the fastest transport out of the garage, you wouldn't make it there until the next day. If I were—" Nestor turned back to find he was talking to himself. The hallway was empty, the lift doors just then closing.

Nestor shook his head and muttered to himself. "Rookie mistake, sir. Flashy newcomers come and go like flecks of confetti. You should bet on a trusted veteran, like Goroh or Octoman instead. Now you'll probably just throw your money away."

* * *

Down over the track the dropship released the last car. Twenty-nine total. One short. Arbin Gordon had been slated to re-qualify this year, along with a few other veteran pilots.

Falcon sat steel beam straight in the flimsy chair, bored yet determined not to show it. The cameras were always watching. Suck it up, Doug. The Falcon was a role model. A living legend! Don't slump. Don't let weakness show and set tongues to wagging. They would say that he'd gone soft. Decadent.

As if in sympathy to his restlessness, the eponymous winds of the planet tore at the shield dome over the stands, shrieking a thwarted savagery that penetrated the sound canceling field as a keening whine. The recycled air of the sealed-in stands smelt of burnt plastic and the unsavory digestive juices of a half-dozen different species. Would that they had provided a private suite to retreat to. Yeah, and an open bar and perhaps a comfy couch to nap on as the slow pageantry of the qualifiers ran its preprogrammed course. No worries that he'd sleep through the race. The years had conditioned him to wake before the flag dropped. The countdown to Go!! was a sound soldered into his brain by a thousand races.

At least he sat alone. But for a handful of well connected fans, press organisms, and would-be talent leeches, the stands were blessedly vacant of crowds. Falcon emitted a not-in-the-fucking-mood aura powerful enough to keep the parasites away.

The cars nosed into their starting positions. Wouldn't be much longer now. Falcon leaned forward a degree. The whisper net had brought no news of emerging talent, but one couldn't know until the race was run. Perhaps someone would manage the nearly impossible and surprise him. Not looking too likely this year. All these newcomers stank of fear. They swaggered with the hallow bravado of the doomed.

Beyond the squashed doughnut of gray track stretched the furrowed green seas of Death Wind, the waves scrolling by at such speeds their rippling mesmerized the unwary. On the horizon towered the Piyan trees, hundreds of meters high and tilted against the predominate winds. Farther away still and misty violet with distance hulked the beyond-colossal ruin of a monster so huge xenobiologists feared to bequeath it a classification, lest any surviving relatives hear their departed kin named, and come to investigate. Its ancient bones stretched out in a mountain range with the skull standing as the tallest peak on the planet.

The furious 350 km/hr wind storms this world was infamous for would serve as a further trial to prove the mettle of the racers. Falcon had always liked Death Wind. Coming in first on a race here felt like winning twice.

The minutes dragged on and the hover drone bearing the countdown displays had yet to leave its berth. Looked like a delay. Some damn technical issue had held up everything. No way to know how long the pilots tense in their hovercrafts would have to wait. Falcon's throat clenched in thirst. Even the greatest of heroes might need a drink and a chance to stretch their legs. Falcon began to rise when a familiar voice brought him to halt.

"How the hell they'd ever manage roping you into this celebrity appearance?" Jody Summer forced a can of unsweetened seltzer water into his fist.

Falcon took a long swallow. Black cherry flavored, one of his favorites. How had she found out? "It's been too long since I waved to my fans and reminded the kids to clean their teeth. And the money isn't bad."

Jody rolled her eyes as she plopped into the seat beside him. "You don't need the money. And you've trained your fans to crave neglect. Spill."

Falcon smirked and gave her the side-eye. "You first. What's a flying ace doing skulking around a routine opening ceremony?"

Jody shrugged. "Scouting out the new breed."

Falcon kept his mouth shut and waited her out.

"Is it so hard to believe I want to stay connected to my favorite hobby? Military pay isn't what it used to be and maybe I need to know who to put my credits on for the Knight Cup."

"Horseshit. You care about the race scene as much as I care about merchandising. The Feds have you here investigating something."

F-Zero was mostly a side-hustle for Jody. A crack combat pilot, she made a living solving the Federation's spicier problems, usually behind the joystick of a bleeding edge outer space combat vehicle. She slouched in the seat with the aloof air common among the Federation's topshelf aces, her brown hair tied up in a bun, street clothes worn over a light combat harness, her face at once beautiful and severe as the wind scraped seas rolling away beneath them.

She caught him scanning her. "Yeah. I'm on assignment. As a consultant. Turns out my expert opinion as an F-Zero pilot is what the higher ups need most this time around."

Falcon arched an eyebrow no one could see. "Really? Interesting. What manner of trouble is so bad they don't just send you in to settle it by means both direct and explosive?"

"If this race ever gets underway, you might see for yourself."

Falcon no longer had to feign investment. He surveyed the track, the cars sitting heavy on the pavement without their g-diffuser drivers activated. Jody studied the lineup as well. Falcon's gaze wandered to empty position 16—the space reserved for the Sonic Phantom. The Skull's spot. They hadn't found a substitute after all.

"You still feel bad about having to bring Gordon in?" Jody kept her attention on the track. He always liked that about her. She respected boundaries.

"What's in a feeling? Days growing short in winter or what you ate for lunch give you feelings. This was far worse. It was a shit job that needed doing. Gordon would've made a bigger mess if I hadn't hurried up to finish it."

"Sooo… You're not here to make it up to The Skull, somehow?"

Falcon shrugged. She had seen the turmoil writ on him. "It's like a tooth torn out. Can't help sticking my tongue in the bleeding socket. What happened to him might happen to someone else."

Jody laughed, not cruelly. She stood up as the drop ship reapproached the track.

"You left the badge and the bullshit behind, but your true nature shines through. Detective, hunter, for you they're much the same. Well, private eye, I think this is the lead you're looking for." She waved her bottle at the circling ship.

"Racer. That's a part of me too. And you. You ever coming back to the circuit, Jody?"

She hugged herself and spoke to the shield dome. "I'm always busy."

"Can't stay young forever." Falcon looked to the floor, to his gloved hands. "Soon, all too soon comes the night when we run out of 'laters."'

Jody raised a hand, a tender gesture from a hard woman. "Don't advice me and I won't advice you."

Falcon opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it.

"Fair 'nuff," he went with at last.

"Look at them down there." Jody gestured with a thrust of her chin. "Remember when we were that young, down on that track, facing our first qualifier? Did such a time ever really exist? Did it really happen to us, or was it a toxic mix of highlight reels and anxiety dreams and all night GalaxyBrain binges I've mistaken for real history?"

The belly of the drop ship split, sticking out a ramp like a gray tongue.

"First time, I was in the same qualifier as Deathborn, though I didn't know it at the time," said Falcon. "Back then he was a small time clone slaver ringleader, flush with cash and overconfidence. I left him in the dust, setting a precedent that's lasted to this day."

A black hearse, long and sleek, glided down the ramp and landed dead center of slot 16. Its fins were tapered and ribbed like bat wings. Silver and dark crimson flourishes highlighted the black. The windshield was dark as night, impossible to see the pilot inside with an unaided eye. Falcon adjusted the settings on his helmet visor, but the only thing he saw in other spectrums was flat gray or a cloud of impenetrable black smoke roiling inside the cockpit. Interesting.

"A substitute pilot. Your quarry. You said there's a connection to Gordon?"

Jody nodded. "He's been courting other pilots. Bio Rex and Michael Chain have been drawn in. Arbin fell into his orbit just last week, through a mutual contact named Soma. From what we've been able to gather, Soma provided victims and instruction for the Skull's sacrificial rites."

"Soma. Sounds like a drug brand name. So he was the 'friend' the Skull mentioned."

"Yes. The subject also altered Arbin's unique physiology with some augmentations, couriered via Soma. The lab people are still puzzling out their nature—like nothing we've ever seen. Our subject deals in some rather exotic wares."

The countdown drone lifted off, floating towards the starting line. Down at the other end of the stands, people were getting out of their seats. The qualifiers were about to begin.

Falcon also left his seat to stand beside Jody, nose to the shield. "Who is this mystery man?"

"No one knows. The subject calls himself Tepes. Pilot handle's Shadow Lord. He's a ghost. No documentation footprint, no trace in any public A/V data capture, at least not that our algorithms can find. It's like he just dropped ex nihilo out of the dark of space last week."

"And Soma?"

"Not much. Foster kid, dead beat parents. Ran away from home years ago, making a living through odd jobs and quasi-legal hustles. Two days ago he vanished. Probably never going to see him again."

The countdown began at three. At "2" the g-diffusers activated and the cars lifted from the track. Engines ignited, banked plasma fire flickering down rocket funnels to illuminate the track in fuzzy radiance and strike rainbow glares from the polished hides of nearby cars. No matter how jaded Falcon became, the blink-and-it's-gone beauty of this sport expanded his chest with the pressure of awe, every time.

"1"

"Let's see if he's any good," said Falcon.

"Go!!"

Rockets flared. Engines shrieked and shook their mountings. Inertia's flimsy grip on the F-Zero machines lingered for half a breath, then slipped. Like panicked thoughts, the cars shot away down the opening stretch, scattering. Savvy pilots took advantage of their impatient rivals, swerving into their path to boost off of the resultant rear collision. All the cars wavered in their courses, steering in against the mighty winds while trying not to overcompensate. Just like a standard race, permission to activate nitro boost power was granted once a vehicle survived to the second round.

Mr. Zero's manic commentary piped into the stands. The race emcee floated above the course in the red painted orb of the recorder station. "Octoman takes the lead! Berserker-2 is right behind him, gaining every microsecond! How will they fare going into the first turn?!"

Shadow Lord trailed along in twenty-eighth place, driving neither poorly nor well. Puttering along like some A.I. piloted drone. Perhaps that's all it was, some prankster's idea of a morbid joke. Wilder things had happened in F-Zero.

And then, like a lamprey scenting blood, the hearse darted forward, slamming into a green car driven by some unknown not worth the effort of remembering their name. Unknown they were fated to remain, for Shadow Lord dug in with enough force to ram his victim into the guard rail shields. Together they scraped along, sparks showering, until seconds later the green car's shields gave out and the nameless pilot exploded with their car.

"Ooo! Our first fatality. And we're not even fifteen seconds in! That has to be a new qualifier record, folks!" raved Mr. Zero. His delivery grew hammier with each new casualty.

"Brutal, but effective. Stupid tactic to use when you're that far behind. He's sacrificed valuable time," said Falcon.

As if sharing his concern, the hearse's pilot began driving in earnest. A complete change came over racer 16. Now it hugged the inner railing through the wide corners of the oval track's boxy north end, dancing over the rough and cutting through the monster winds like they weren't even there. The powerful winds obliged all other pilots to sacrifice optimal movement by constantly tacking towards the track's center rather than hug the inside edge, lest they be pushed into the railing shields by a sudden gust. While grinding against the track barriers a car would bleed speed. Sponge up enough of punishment from the barriers, and a car's fuel cells or its reactor would breech. Boom. F-Zero pilots spared their surviving families the expense of funeral arrangements. High energy explosions did a great job of scattering the ashes.

Once the pilots reached the far side of the race track, spectators were obliged to watch the holoscreens hooked up throughout the dome. Drone cameras streamed in the distant action in high def. Jody watched the screens. Falcon looked on through his visor's binocular mode.

Into the next long straightaway Shadow Lord zipped along unmoved by the wind, his course straighter than an arrow's flight down the narrow throat of track, hitting the two dash zones at the correct angles. Flush with speed, he steered the grim machine into the leading twelve. In the confined space, they were crowded together, jostling for room, chipping away at each other's shields. Having reached center of the supersonic traffic jam, car 16 threw all its velocity into a full 90 degree turn. Instead of flipping over, the racing machine revved up into a cyclone of black metal and smearing red lights. Spin attack engaged, the hearse rammed into one car, rebounded off another, ricocheted off a third, slamming link-to-link through a chain reaction of carnage. Machines burst into flames and black smoke. The winds twisted each fallen pilot's pyre into a vanishing tornado. Shadow Lord slapped a few cars hard enough they jumped the rails entirely to impact the white-capped waters below at the speed of sound, skipping across the surface as their furious spinning sent parts flying like shrapnel.

Jody let out a low gasp. "He's turning this into a death race."

"Death Qualifier!" Mr. Zero ejaculated over the speakers.

Falcon didn't respond. Soaking in every detail required his full attention. Ten cars remained, and number 16 had advanced to fifth place. The racers ahead of Shadow Lord were strung out with plenty of space between them. No pinball antics would take them down. The hearse claimed Berserker-2 in the second pair of turns at the south end, T-boning the self-styled cyber-barbarian's Laser Axe into the rails hard enough to rupture its shields instantly.

The survivors of round one crossed the finish line into the second lap. Turbo boost power activated.

Most pilots elected to burn a little of their shield energy as turbo boost along the opening straightaway. The high winds made using more than a second of boost at a time stupidly risky. Shadow Lord concentrated on racing well through the turns, forsaking murder for the moment. He had gained fourth place. Ahead was Octoman in first, Mighty Gazelle, and a newcomer named Geno driving a car of living wood. Each pilot managed to hit the dash pads, but only the hearse made headway against the wind.

Mighty Gazelle held third place as Shadow Lord's hearse drew even with his car, the Red Gazelle. They weaved cheek-to-cheek on cushions of air, each a micron away from shoving the other into the rails. The cyborg pilot side-swiped the challenger in classic F-Zero fashion. Had this maneuver achieved the expected result, Gazelle would've inflicted some shield drain, knocked his enemy off course, and gained an additional burst of speed off the impact. The hearse was knocked a little ways to the side. It bounced back faster than should be possible, prey mad and hovering in for the kill.

And then, from Tepes' black machine emerged the ghost.

Falcon could think of no other way to describe it. A transparent specter wrapped in a ragged, gray shroud unruffled by the tearing winds. It floated over to Red Gazelle with the grace of ink spreading through clear water, then locked in place like a pronouncement of doom above Mighty's machine even as it sped along at over 800 k/hr.

The weirdness didn't end there. In its skeletal claws the ghost gripped a long-shafted scythe, its curved blade as long as the specter was tall. It raised this primitive weapon, and beneath its drawn hood there reared a bare skull. By comparison, there had been more life in the fleshless face of Arbin last night. As Falcon watched through his visor's telescopic view, the ghost meet his gaze with its empty, black sockets. Falcon blinked, lizard brain itching to brush the sight from his eyes as if jagged flecks of rock had landed on his corneas. He had seen this grim figure before, earlier in life, he was now sure of it. But where? Perhaps in a book. A meme, or symbol, older than old. A true myth. Deep within Captain Falcon, a rumbling arose in the incandescent breast of the Falcon Power, for it too was stirred to recognition. Still, together they could not place the name.

Down swung the phantom blade. The scythe passed through the car, seeming to cut nothing. The ghost faded into empty air as the Red Gazelle drifted, its engines shifted into idle, the lethal winds sweeping it into the guard rails where the car convulsed pitifully until the energies ripped it apart. It was as if… as if Mighty Gazelle had been struck dead at the wheel.

Falcon squeezed shut his eyes as he drew a long breath. In the darkness behind the lids, where afterimages danced in colorless light, twin points of a deeper darkness watched him still. Jody was shouting something, but he couldn't hear the words. A buzzing filled the hollows within his ears. Wrath crowded shut his throat.

Across the galaxy, fans would watch the recording of this moment and gasp. Mr. Zero had broken down in a series of sputterings and shrieks. On the far side of the stands, spectators were babbling and unlocking their phones. The sport had been profaned.

F-Zero had so few rules. Wasting one's fellow racers during a race was a time-honored and legal tactic to climb the ranks. Whatever myth Tepes was referencing here, holograms which could distract pilots like this were illegal. Equipping cars with weapons systems, killing a fellow pilot by any means non-vehicular while on the track—super forbidden. You wanted a fellow pilot dead, then you used the steering wheel in your hands, just as they would use theirs. Somehow, Shadow Lord had reached out between cars and killed what little mortal flesh the cyborg pilot had possessed. Falcon had seen a lot of dirt done in F-Zero, but never a weapon like that.

Falcon turned away. He began climbing the steps to the back of the seating tiers. A series of coded winks launched the helmet computer's command menu. From there, he blew the whistle.

"Well, this makes my job a whole lot more—Falcon? Where are you going? I've never seen race mayhem upset you before," said Jody.

"I'm not upset." He turned around, grinning hard enough to bare teeth. He didn't care if she saw the erection tenting his pants or not. "I'm ready." He sprinted down the stairs, chugging his arms, running as fast as he was capable.

"Oh, no. No no no! He's mine," shouted Jody. She stepped into his path at the bottom of the stairs, arms spread.

"Then you best get to him first," Falcon roared. He vaulted at the last instant, soaring over Jody and meeting the shield with an out-thrust knee. A crackle of lightning, and the bubble blistered outward, shattering once the force surpassed the material's stress limits. Momentum preserved, Falcon tumbled outdoors into the wind. Death Wind caught him in its claws, ripping out his breath, tearing at his pilot suit. The howling would have destroyed his hearing if not for the advanced proactive ear protection of his helmet.

High above soared the Falcon Flyer. Mere seconds earlier it had opened its belly and let drop a speck of blue, glinting as it plummeted in the green sunlight.

A scant second and a half before the air currents could carry Falcon off to a watery doom in the frothing sea below, the Blue Falcon swooped by and caught him in its cockpit. The windshield snapped closed like a beak. After an awkward struggle to right himself against a deflating crashbag seat, the automated safety belts strapped him down to the chair. His hands seized the wheel.

"Auto-pilot disengaged," scrolled across the windshield in flashing red letters. In control, Falcon turned the nose toward the starting line and clapped the accelerator pedal to the floor. The surviving pilots had one lap to go (qualifiers went three laps instead of the readopted policy for five laps in a standard race). Didn't matter. Falcon didn't care about placing first. Tepes had strutted into his world like some asshole tourist. He'd violated the F-Zero ethos. Time to see if this clown really had any sand in his sack.

Octoman and Shadow Lord remained, vying for first. A couple of scrubs kept their distance much farther back. With only four racers remaining on the track, their qualification was assured, so long as they made it across the finish line alive.

The Blue Falcon hugged the turns, blasted past the stragglers, and in seconds he had a distant dot of shadow to aim for.

Feeling the skin of his face pull back, Falcon poured on the boost juice. Distant objects grew to shuddering mirages, and in another half-second the cars graduated from the abstract to hard, definite things. Each a fist of painted metal darting close to dash his insides all over his outsides. Blue Falcon met hearse on the other side of the course, in the second straightway. Forth lunged the specter, hollow eye sockets burning with sulfur flames of unlife, blade glinting as it reared high for the killing stroke.

Falcon roared defiance and hauled with all his might on the wheel. The Blue Falcon twirled on the wind. It met Shadow Lord's car at an oblique angle, the Blue Falcon dodging the scythe's swing. His car rammed the hearse with its reinforced nose. Shadow Lord veered off into the guard rail, the barrier fields sparking to life as they sucked the power from the grim car's shields. By slamming down the breaks Falcon avoided a similar ravaging, only to leave himself open for Octoman's Deep Claw to smash its trident nose into the Blue Falcon's side, bouncing him twice off the rail shields.

The bastard was getting away. Shadow Lord's car receded to a vanishing blotch of midnight, like a bat fleeing the dawn. Swearing at the top of his lungs, frothing, Falcon hammered the throttle and pushed his whole weight into the wheel, screaming at his baby to leap to the chase.

Falcon didn't know what had happened to Octoman. Didn't care. The prize was before him. Victory was all.

Around the narrow turns he chased Shadow Lord. The winds coiled around the Blue Falcon but he would not be moved from his course. Down the straightaway blue closed on black. Falcon raved, pushing the option to burn turbo boost even though his shield gauge showed less than a third full. The hearse drew close, fine detail shading back in. Then they had drawn nearly even, car 16 ahead by the tip of its grill. From the murky darkness of the cockpit, he sensed rather than saw someone watching him, a pale face with burning eyes, a tongue that rasped over lips.

Almost there. Scant millimeters away from beating this joke to the finish line, from a flat stop! "Can't kill me, fresh meat. You're nothing without cheating. Nothing!"

And then the hearse of Shadow Lord crossed the finish line—in first place. As he pulled away to run a victory lap, Falcon braked the Blue Falcon off to the side. The two nonames zipped by and finally Octoman limped past, the Deep Claw's shield flashing as its integrity had nearly dissolved.

Of course this wasn't a real race. Falcon didn't even need to qualify this year. Yet Tepes had scored a point against him. First blood. Everyone across the Federation, and beyond, would know it, too.

As Falcon reacquainted himself with the ashen taste of defeat, he gazed off into the far distance, locking with the empty gaze of the mountain-sized skull. A _memento mori_ visible from orbit, staring back into one who must one day join it in death. Arbin Gordon's voice spoke to him through the moaning of the killing winds pressing against the windshield.

_Hasbeen. Old Man. Your time has passed._

With a will of steel Falcon shut the voice out. For a time he sat there alone, contemplating nothing. The man and the titanic vista of ruin heaped upon the horizon regarded each other across the sea.


	5. Interlude I: Dance of Gold

Getting in had been the easy part. No alarms, no guards, not even a spotlight as they raced through an overgrown garden, steering clear of the giant flowering plants with concentric rings of teeth for blossoms.

Spurning any ground level entrance, they risked the hum of their g-diffuser belts as they levitated up to the aqueduct. They hustled along the elevated bridge of stone in a close grouping. Goroh ran point, a heavy Cornerian dragoon pistol in hand. Backing him up were four of his best men, Sasuke, Hakuun, Tsukikage, and Genzai. Two more waited outside the curtain wall, guarding the discrete culvert they'd blasted open with silenced explosives.

Samurai Goroh hated all this. The crumbly brickwork under his feet, all these frakkin' columns supporting broken stone arches behind which any damn thing might be hiding. Even the stream of blue gray water coursing down the aqueduct disturbed him. While the whispering and gurgling of the fast flowing waters had seemed like a good cover for any noise they might make by accident, more than once Goroh had caught in the corner of his eye something moving, coiling in the murky depths. Snapping around to track the movement only netted an impression of some vague shape, long and sinuous, sliding away into the gloom. Just an eddy of foam, perhaps.

Sure, and he was a red-assed monkey. Goroh hadn't survived as bandit chief by leaving things at 'perhaps.' He hand signaled to Genzai, nodded to the channel. _Check it out._

Wearing his specialized goggles, Genzai inched up the water's edge, look a hard look, rifle ready. A long minute later he backed away without turning, then signaled the all-clear.

Goroh rolled his shoulders. Probably some exotic pet.

Without incident, they reached the castle wall. The shadow of the keep swallowed them, and once more Goroh wondered at the unusually bright hologram moon projected high overhead which had provided them ambient light. Ahead, a simple door of weathered wood, banded with iron. Approaching slow, they eyed all angles, especially the shadowed nooks in the decayed splendor of the tufa block arches hanging above.

The silence, in which they breathed like hunted men, was an expectant one. Hakuun stepped forward and waved his scanner around. He shook his head. Clear.

"No cameras, no sensors anywhere. Creepy, man," muttered Tsukikage.

"And you're _complaining_?" hissed Sasuke.

"Some things are made more disturbing by their absence," muttered Goroh. "Also, glue yer brother kissin' lips shut."

Goroh wrapped a bandanna around his hand and tugged on the door's iron pull ring. The door swung open with a grinding creak. No guard drones swooped down on their heads, and his arm didn't explode. So far so good.

Within the keep waited a hungry darkness spotted by pools of shivering yellow light. He waved Genzai forward, who donned the group's sole pair of omni-spectra googles. Genzai crept over the threshold, sweeping the corridor through the sites of his laser rifle. The rest followed, Goroh going next, Tsukikage bringing up their six with his old-school ballistic shotgun.

It was cool inside the castle. Drafty. Though he could see no source for them, drafts of air gusted over them like huge, chilly breaths. The flickering lights came from pairs of candles mounted along the wall.

More than a dozen meters in there was no sight of the hallway's end. A moaning echoed down the hall, rising into a long, hissing sigh. The drafts became a stiff wind. The candles in their holders guttered, then blew out.

Consumed by a darkness profoundly complete, each man froze in place. Evil laughter trailed the last of the wind. Then it was still, silent, without even the drafts to keep them company. Goroh heard the working of his own body and the rapid breathing of his men, nothing else.

"Genzai," he whispered. "See anything?"

No response.

''Genzai!"

"We're alone," Genzai answered after a moment.

"Link up, and keep moving." Goroh gripped Genzai's shoulder, and Sasuke held his in turn. In a chain, they shuffled forward.

The void dragged on and on. Nose sharpened by sensory deprivation, there was nothing to smell but damp and dust and flop sweat. It took effort to avoid imagining the great weight of stone entombing them, sliding silently closer. Squeezing the narrow corridor closed like a great fist.

Goroh had time to think.

For all human activities—a proper form by which to undertake them. This mission was all piss backwards from the way bandits should be operating. Proper highwaymen picked their ground. Set the traps, place your men, and let the victims come to you. A self-respecting bandit robbed his marks with swagger. They didn't set aside their balls to creep about like some cringing house burglar. Even spaceway pirates had the sense to soften a target by bombing the shit out of them before moving in for the take.

It couldn't be helped. His Red Canyon outfit was feeling the squeeze. Sand mining in the Sand Ocean had upscaled massively. Which made for plenty of rich targets caravaning in and out of mining sites, sure, but with more profit at stake the mining corporations laid down serious credits for security. Bounty hunters and private military were promised bonuses for every "bandit" scalp brought in. They'd wiped out two squatter villages already, and the Sand Ocean natives were on the run. Some of his men had lost family to hunters. Wife and kids, reduced to bones in the sand and a patch of leather dangling from a hunter's belt.

To hold onto his turf, his men needed more weapons. He needed more men! So Goroh had accepted the pale lunatic's offer. Way he figured it, even if the raid ended up bust, he'd get out alive. And then it'd be time for payback.

That'd been the plan. Now Goroh wasn't so sure.

Where was all this opposition Alucard had warned him about? So far they'd suffered one practical joke, just automated kiddie park haunted house stuff. What next? A ghost popping out on a spring maybe.

Ahead, light. They turned a corner into a room alive with fire. Candle flames danced from tables and candelabra and great wood wheel chandeliers. Bundles of candles had been stuffed into wall sconces. And where there weren't candles, weapons of ancient design adorned the walls and cluttered the corners. Swords, lances, axes, and all manner of blade mounted on the end of long shafts. Goroh even spotted a few katanas in racks of red and black lacquered wood.

At the far end of the room rested a heap of disparate pieces of armor, piled around a high chair in which sat a whole suit of black plate mail tailored to fit a giant.

Every piece, weapon and armor, showed signs of wear, but had been oiled and cleaned. Ready to serve.

Goroh sneered. Who bothered to set up all this shit, really? It was offensive in its excess. Rich people. Buncha assholes trying to prove to each other they had more than the next guy, when all of them had done so little to earn it in the first place. One day, when Goroh had a throne room of his own, anyone walking in would know everything on display he'd taken with his own hands.

''Hey boss, what do you think these cutters are worth?" asked Sasuke. He tottered, lifting from a wall brace a two-handed sword in a sheath of leather decorated with black pearls.

Goroh opened his mouth to object when Tsukikage interjected, "This stuff oozes craftsmanship, boss." He was ransacking through a barrel of spears. The marbled steel of their heads glinted, edges sharp. Their shafts were inlaid with ivory and silver or platinum. "I mean, most of the base materials this stuff's made from ain't worth the sweat hauling it outta here, but there's buyers out there who'll pay top rates for this kinda antique. If you can convince them it's aw-thin-tic. I have a guy, he fences this sorta thing." The spears clattered, making all kinds of noise.

"This is what we came for, ya?" asked Hakuun without bothering to lower his voice. He had found a chest of daggers. Each was ornate with cut gems and beads carved from the bones and shells of extinct animals. The guards and hilts featured intricate, delicate detailing worked from what looked like every valuable metal on the periodic table minus the radioactive ones. As Hakuun inspected each one he would either toss it over his shoulder or stick a winner under his belt.

Goroh spat. His men had already forgotten themselves in their lust for loot. They had split up to fondle the goods and bray their enthusiasm like idiot donkeys.

Only Genzai stood apart from the shopping, sticking close to his boss. He shook his head, a rueful smile on his face. Goroh gave him a nod as he slid a long katana in a gold etched cypress sheath from its rack and stuck it through a loop in his belt.

With the hiss of well oiled metal against metal, the over-sized suit of black armor rose from its throne. Of course it did. Why not? It took a long step forward, an enormous axe gripped in its gauntlets. No face behind the grill of its helmet visor, only blank darkness. Goroh raised the dragoon pistol to illuminate it for a better look. The report of the shot thundered and rebound in the windowless room.

The concentrated ion blast punched through the visor, burst out the back of the helmet to sizzle into the stone behind it. Through the hole he'd made, there was still nothing to see but darkness. The shock hadn't even made the suit twitch. It took another step. By now his men where screaming and falling back.

The black armor drew back the axe for a great swing. The armory was large, but this thing wouldn't need to take many swipes before they ran out of room to run. "The axe!" Goroh shouted. "All at once!" When he pulled the trigger a second time, four more guns fired in chorus.

The black knight lunged forward, then stopped short. The helmet rotated to regard the smoking stump of steel in its fists. Then it dropped the shaft and pulled out a several meters long broadsword.

"Formation Delta," shouted Goroh.

His men exchanged panicked looks.

"Hell, just shoot the bastard!" As one, roaring, screaming, they unloaded a fierce barrage on the armor. The polished plates lit up as if they too were covered with lit candles. Sword shattered, helmet melting, the armor collapsed to pieces. What fragments were left did not move again.

The bandits capered and embraced each other, hollering. Even Goroh lost himself to the moment, lifting his arms and laughing in victory. "And to think this run had me worried. This is fun!"

A deep rumbling shivered the candle flames and set the weapons rattling in their racks. Before anyone could begin to wonder what was going on, the floor beneath them split. Down into a pitch black free fall they dropped, weapons and furniture twirling alongside them.

Goroh was as shocked by the abrupt slam of his landing as he was to find himself whole. Struggling to breathe against the sharp agonies of rudely emptied lungs, he rolled over and beheld the treasure vaults of Dracula.

More damn candles, thousands of them in gilt holders, struck a warm yellow glow from a landscape of gold. In no place was the floor beneath visible. Chests overflowed with gems and strings of pearls. Everywhere were piled masterwork pieces of jewelry, bangles, crowns, scepters enough to deck out the interstellar royalty of two galaxies.

He had recovered his power to breathe, but Goroh could not bring his thoughts to order. His bandit's mind faltered in attempting to encompass the bulk of the possibilities which now lay to hand. He rolled over, sending a personal avalanche of coins tinkling down the hill of gold on which he and his men had landed, its peak covered by gold threaded cushions which had blunted their fall. The drop must've not been as deep as it seemed. Bruised but unbroken, they rammed their arms elbow deep into the treasure heaps in a rush to confirm their reality.

"Real. Real. It's all the real stuff, boss." Hakuun plucked up a coin with shaking fingers, scanned it, then a gem, then another nugget of gold. He was sweating. Picking up pieces and tossing them aside faster and faster, plucking from different piles as if suddenly worried his sampling methodology was too narrow. "All scans coming up good. Nothing fake yet," he said, an hysterical rise creeping into his voice.

"This is enough gold and platinum to depress the entire galactic market," said Tsukikage. The thin bandit was pushing his body through the jingling heaps, attempting to swim in the wealth. Even with a thousand worlds to mine from, the Federation was always seeking more of the heavier elements (rare elements created only in the collision of neutron stars), gold being in the top three most wanted. That this motherload of rare elements was also crafted into fine artifacts of heart rending beauty really put the bean paste into the mochi cake.

"Yeah," was all Goroh could say, voice hushed. The place smelt of gold. He hadn't known it was possible for a chemically inert element to exude an odor, but there it was. Like copper, but cleaner, milder. The smell of dreams fulfilled. He ran his hands through it, letting the gems and coins fall between his newly ringed fingers as he sat in childish awe. A sob escaped his throat.

A nasty thought intruded, a black spot in the golden haze of bliss. They had no way to cart this loot home. And who knew what measures Dracula might take to protect his hoard before Goroh returned with a thousand men to take the rest. No matter. He'd find ten thousand men, robots, whatever, and clean this place out, and no one was going to stop him. And when he came back, he'd have that white faced prick marching front and center at gunpoint. Let Alucard find his precious books by his own damned self.

"All right," he barked out. "Pack up only what you can carry that won't slow you down." Goroh crammed some gold into one pocket, a silver crucifix crusted with red garnets into another. All four of his men already had rings on all their non-trigger fingers, and a tiara or diadem on their heads.

They set off to find a way out. Each man scintillated with riches, dressed in shabby work clothes, marching with the hauteur of pirate emperors.

"Stay frosty," Goroh growled. "No telling what security this lunatic set to watch over all this, but there's bound to be more of it."

The vaults were not a straightforward chain of large rooms, but more a sprawling dungeon alternating between vast chambers and narrow stairwells, blind corners, and even balconies far overhead, as if these spaces had served some other function before becoming windowless treasure caverns.

Along the way they saw many wonders and horrors. Clockwork ravens of jet and gray jade, with beaks of brass. Bats that flapped in stately flight, made entirely of compacted gold and gems. They tiptoed around sarcophagi of oiled exotic woods which sometimes rattled and creaked as they drew near. At one point they crossed a bridge fashioned of treasure, spanning a chasm in the floor. The bridge fell apart behind them as they crossed. From the black depths of this crevasse demons cried out to them in the voices of their departed mothers and grandmothers. Even dense Tsukikage knew better than to look down as they fled over the crumbling bridge, even when the voices grew more piteous, drawing closer and closer. The sight which left the deepest impression on Goroh were the mirrors of burnished silver or bronze, set in alcoves hung with rotted purple velvet. When they looked into these they saw their own fuzzy reflections. And reflected in the mirror beside them a crowd of dark, uncertain figures with eyes of cold blue light. The figures would part to make way for the reflected bandits as they marched on, those cold burning eyes never blinking. Sometimes, one of these vague shapes of men would reach out to touch a mirrored bandit. When that happened, they stepped along all the faster. Goroh was more glad than he could express in words that the mirrors were too primitive to reflect fine detail.

After a while they returned to where they started, the hill crested with cushions, no closer to a finding an exit. Goroh swore and turned to kick over an urn of lapis lazuli ear ornaments. It was then he looked back the way they'd come and saw their merry band had grown to six.

Perhaps the constant ringing of treasure pieces sliding from their every step deafened them, and the glow of countless splendors dimmed their sight, for they had missed the red skeleton tottering along after them. As it drew close to Sasuke, it reached out with its skinless claws, jaws gaping silent. Congealed blood covered its every bone, so dark red its hue was almost maroon.

Goroh muttered harsh suggestions of where the gods might stick their divine cocks, raised the dragoon pistol in a hand not quite steady, and blasted the skeleton off its phalanges. The whole thing crumbled into a sad pile of bones.

He spun on his men, thundering. ''What'd I say? Frosty! You're all lukewarm. Did no one notice the Skull's little cousin sneaking up to snack on your stupid asses?"

"Uh, boss…" Hakuun pointed behind Goroh.

The gore clotted bones had begun to stir. As he watched, the femurs and pelvis began to rejoin, the ribs and spine floating up from the floor seemingly under their own power. The skeleton had nearly become whole when Goroh shot the monster again, and again it collapsed.

They stood still and waited. Seconds later, the bones shivered and began to reassemble. Fine grains of pulverized bone condensed from the air to swirl down and fill in the hole the ion blast had exploded through the skull's forehead plate.

"B-b-boss, maybe try your sword?" said Hakuun.

"Hell if I'm going to dirty my blade on this thing." On the last word his voice began to crack. Goroh shot the bone pile again. Truth was, he didn't want to get close enough to that thing to take a swing. "Just one of it. Doesn't matter. We're leaving!" He stomped off in what he hoped was a new direction. As long as he kept moving his men wouldn't notice he'd gotten the shakes.

Ever since he was a child, Goroh had an intense fear of skeletons. It came in part from stumbling onto a space fighter wreck at the tender age of ten. Out exploring on the funeral plain of Sand Ocean, he stepped on a patch of boom sand. One face of the dune he'd been clomping down fell away, making a sound like large drums booming underground. This summoned the sand crabs. Goroh had seconds to save himself by climbing the nearest rock outcropping which had been fortunately close to hand.

Once the crabs had shuffled back beneath the sands, he saw that it was not a spire of rock on which he'd taken refuge, but the wing of a small space fighter craft sticking up askew from the desert, its metal badly corroded as to resemble lichen covered sandstone. As he climbed down, his boot slipped and struck the cockpit hatch, which being merely stuck and no longer locked, popped open.

In the dim brown light, someone turned over in the pilot's chair and looked up. The corpse of the pilot shifted only because of escaping gas, or so his father explained later, but Goroh for years swore the withered thing had moved on its own. Through the shattered visor of its helmet, one miraculously preserved eye glared up at him, white and lidless. The sight was hideous. Far worse was the stench of rot and long spoiled apples wafting up from the cockpit. A foulness the desert dryness hadn't had the chance to cleanse.

A trace of that putrid apple core stink drifted into his nose now. They jogged through a low valley between high hills of gold. Treasures began trickling down the slopes. A hollow rattling followed the music of gold on gold. Goroh saw that in his haste he had led them all into a trap.

Over the dunes of coin and jeweled trinkets they came. Lurching on a broken leg, or striding with a revolting insectile grace, the skeletons crested the high ground. Some rushed down the face of the dunes at them, while others stayed behind to break sharp bone fragments off themselves and hurl them like stones on the bandits below. Some of these bone missiles struck home, hitting with surprising strength to leave bruises or bleeding gashes.

Guns spitting laser death and shotgun booming, the Red Canyon bandits cut their way out of the circle. Bones of dry gray or rotten yellow stayed down. More of the red skeletons had arrived, and though Goroh did not stick around to see if they would self-repair, he knew better than to expect better. Shrill, frightened notes had begun to leak out between Goroh's clenched teeth. Numbly, he was aware that he'd given in to flight reflex, all attempts at navigation abandoned. Who could care about that when skeletons walked? _Away_ was the only concept he could hold onto.

When they had put some distance between them and the skeletons, the bandits stopped to catch their breath. Goroh forced his eyes fully open and saw they'd sheltered in a hall unfamiliar to him. Checking around, they were all pretty sure they hadn't seen this corridor before. There were fewer candles set out here, the corners and distant recesses almost dim enough for shadow. In the distance, the dry scrape of hollow calcium grew steadily closer.

"Let's try this way. Anyone hurt?"

"Just bones," said Genzai.

"Just my nuts." Sasuke huffed and swore as he pulled a sliver of yellow bone from his side. Long and sharp like a bamboo skewer, the missile had stung deep enough to draw a steady flow of blood. As sound of pursuit drew near, Hakuun wetted down the wound with first aid spray and slapped a bandage over it.

Further down the hallway, curtains strung from the ceiling hung low enough their tasseled fringes brushed the tops of their heads. Goroh reached up to swat away a tickling strand and drew back a hand snagged with a dense wad of sticky spider's web. Spiders were better than skeletons, but Goroh wasn't a fan.

"Ugh, this is no good. Let's double back and see if we can find another branch."

"Hold up, an air current is moving this curtain." Tsukikage approached an alcove concealed behind heavy, dust coated drapes. The fabric billowed gently, as if pushed on by moving air from the other side. "Might be a way out."

"Don't—" Goroh called out too late. Tsukikage tore aside the curtain, releasing the diamond spiders. Larger than sewer rats, they swarmed over him, crystalline mandibles lacerating his flesh, spitting bubbling yellow toxin into the wounds. Hakuun and Genzai opened up with their laser rifles, but the diamond carapaces of the spiders merely refracted the death beams, sending them back to sender in a dance of split rays. Hakuun recoiled, gripping his scorched right arm.

It was Sasuke who had brains enough to grab up the double-barreled shotgun Tsukikage had dropped. The old fashioned scatter shot shattered the spiders. The rest scurried back into their hole as the bandits dragged their stricken brother to relative safety.

Already, the fastest skeletons were just a few meters behind them. Dim light rendered them all the more hideous, where the mind could better flesh them in its own fears. One sorry specimen was chasing its own head, kicking its own skull away each time it reached down to pick it up.

There was nothing to it but to run on and hope they didn't hit a dead end, figuratively and literally. At one point, they passed another of the cursed mirrors. In its smeary silver depths, Goroh saw no reflections of living men. Just five more shadowy figures rushing through the still ranks of their uncountable brethren. One of the moving reflections wore Tsukikage's face, twisted in an expression too terrible to describe. But Goroh blew past the mirror at speed and might've been mistaken.

Instead of a closed trap, they emerged from the spider hall onto the lip of a sparkling canyon. Here the gems were still embedded in living rock, and the treasure had petered out into a natural cavern of wet blue gray stone.

Tsukikage let out a gurgling moan and tore free from Hakuun's grasp. His eyes were rolled up and oozing yellow ichor. Before anyone could stop him, Tsukikage hurled off the lip. While in free fall, a flock of bats, black and huge and very much alive, overtook the falling man. Only stripped bones, still pink, tumbled out of the flock to clatter to the distant cave floor below.

"Screw this." Goroh had looked up. A chimney of stone high above opened out on the swirling, lightning streaked clouds of Mute City's night sky. Never before had Goroh been moved to the point of tears by the sight of bad weather. "Turn on your belts."

He rued that, having gone mad from treasure, they'd never thought to use their g-diffuser belts to fly back up into the armory, and from there leave as they'd come in. Maybe then poor Tsukikage would still be alive.

In a loose V, the surviving bandits rose through the cavern in hourglass-shaped gravity dissipation fields. Hungry bats continued to fly out of nowhere, but they were all crack shots and none of the loathsome things got close.

At the top of the cavern nothing barred their way up through the vertical tunnel of rock. They emerged into the muggy night air. The power sources for the belts were nearly spent. Goroh would've gotten down on his knees to kiss the grass, but he wasn't sure if it would attempt to eat his face or not. Ahead were the gardens. Above, the aqueduct a stark black bridge silhouetted against the city-brightened, churning clouds.

Rustling, coming from all sides. Out of the gardens stalked plants twice as tall as a man, blossoms gnashing their toothy petals together. Nearby, a primitive elevator waited at ground level to take them up to the aqueduct.

"High road it is."

Sasuke had turned pale and began to fall behind. Goroh supported him on his shoulder as they ran for the elevator, three steps ahead of the man-eating flowers. They reached it and pulled the lever to rise. A nearby motor shrieked to life as a protective screen slammed over the entrance just in time to stop the reaching tendrils of the monster plants.

The elevator shot up its shaft at stomach dropping speed. At the top they found the door they had taken to enter the castle just an hour—or days—ago.

They were alone on the stonework, with the susurrus of water the only sound. Goroh handed Sasuke to Hakuun and took point, sword in one hand, pistol in the other. Genzai brought up the rear.

As they began the last leg of the trip home, much of their loot fallen off their persons and spilled from their pockets, Goroh reflected that things might work out after all.

Just enough g-diffuser belt power remained to float them down to the ground, if they timed it carefully and didn't mind free falling a bit on the way down. Peering over the aqueduct's edge, Goroh saw nothing moving or hungry beneath them. From the aqueduct's end, a short jog to the outer wall. Their two brothers would be waiting to escort them safely back to the hideout, and after a rest and some drinks, he would call in all the muscle still loyal to him. And then he'd call everyone who owed him a favor, and everyone he could bribe or beg or press gang. And round two would go his way. Screw Dracula and screw Alucard. Once they were done, the Red Canyon gang would own the damn mining companies.

At this point, the mission was still salvageable. And then Sasuke's skeleton exploded from his body and ran screaming at Goroh. Screaming even as the esophagus and trachea slid wetly out from under the jaws, slithering down through the hollowed rib cage.

Howling, Goroh shot him and cut across his knee caps for good measure. As he stood panting, already the smaller bones began to twitch, began to float up where they would rejoin the larger bones.

He turned away with a despairing moan, gesturing the surviving two to follow him. The bloody mess that had been Sasuke shambled after them.

A few meters later, they ran out of aqueduct. At the tumbled down end the water fell sparkling in a gentle roar. Below, fine mists glowed with the moon.

"Almost home free," said Genzai.

Goroh gave him a hard grin. "Yeah. But not for you." He raised the dragoon pistol. Drew bead on Genzai's heart.

Hakuun looked between them, mouth drooping open. "Boss, you… what? Don't tell me this place drove you crazy too? C'mon, it's just Genzai."

Goroh shook his head, nostrils flaring. "No. You've got the best mimic tech I've ever encountered, but I know better than to trust just my eyes."

"How'd you figure it out?" asked Genzai, who was smiling with warmth, as if nothing were wrong, as if they all weren't standing where they were standing.

"No man in my gang stands idle while there's loot to be had. Back in the armory, you stood apart from your brothers. Rather out of character. And in that first hallway, when all the lights blew out, Genzai was the only one wearing see-in-the-dark googles. Makes sense you'd take him out first before he could warn anyone else."

The thing that pretended to be Genzai laughed and clapped. "Very good. Clever to see through me. But not clever enough to save the lives of your men."

Goroh's finger slid into the trigger guard. "Well, at least I can avenge them."

"Hardly." A fierce light came into the thing's eyes. "He'll have your scent now. He'll come for you."

"Looking forward to it."

Goroh fired. The fake Genzai had already begun to twist to the side, blurring with inhuman speed. The shot blasted out the left shoulder. Goroh had pulled the trigger a half-second too late.

The impostor, not at all slowed or weakened by a missing shoulder, shoved the still gawping Hakuun into the channel. Before the bandit's head had sunk below the surface, the maw of a huge serpent closed around him. The scaly abomination swallowed the bandit whole, its head as large as an F-Zero machine. It ruffled its fins at them, then sank beneath the murky waters.

Genzai returned fire and nearly scorched Goroh's head off, but Goroh had dropped to one knee in time to throw off his aim. Again the dragoon pistol thundered. The doppelganger dropped the rifle, despairing over the gaping, oozing hole where its midriff had been.

Goroh dropped the pistol and sprinted the distance between them, katana flashing in the moon. The doppelganger jumped back out of range of the blade, but Goroh lunged and grabbed him by the arm. Shouting a war cry, he chopped down, aiming for the elbow joint. The katana sheered through with all the resistance of cutting water rather than flesh and bone. Goroh had placed so much furious strength behind the blow that only deep training stopped his sword arm from carrying through the motion before he chopped off his own leg. As it was, the blade bounced off the thigh, leaving a stinging, if shallow, cut.

The severed arm in his hand lost color and opacity, becoming an oily jelly which melted and seeped out between his fingers. Goroh threw the much away, grimacing in revulsion.

The Genzai doppelganger recoiled, shrieking like no living animal could. It reeled backwards. Goroh gave chase, stabbing down again and again, trying to pin the doppelganger to the masonry. It crab crawled with fluid agility, finally skittering over the edge. The monster vanished into the night shrouded grounds below, and Goroh wasn't in the mood to track it back into its home domain.

One last look at Castlevania, then he turned to go, steering well clear of the sloshing channel of water. The scrape of a footstep brought him up short. The bloody skeleton had almost reached him. Sasuke reached out with arms wide, finger bones clawing the air. Goroh considered the hollow places where eyes had once been.

Where I am, so shall you soon be, the empty gaze seemed to say.

Goroh gave the red skeleton who had been his friend and brother-in-arms one last futile hack, sending the skull bouncing into the stream. Far behind him, something howled to the crescent moon.


	6. Big Blue

A hundred thousand pedestrians gushed through the arteries of Mute City. The sun had yet to break over the skyline and already the streets hissed from the heat. Water vapor and worse chemicals clouded up the walkways, swirling from sewer grates and cracked pipes.

Through the overheated stream of sapient life Alucard walked alone, thinking his restless thoughts, his footsteps flat, melancholy beats on the carbon-ceramic brick path. The reeking mortal torrent overspilled the walkways, sloshing into the gutters. Each individual was a musky blood bag polluted by hoarded pain and a brain stem-deep need to exert control over others.

A wan ghost of a temptation skittered over the folds of his brain to submit its meek query: tear one open and drink it all down? How wonderful to strengthen himself on delicious blood while putting them out of their misery.

No, came the answer, as unyielding as a fist cast from vacuum forged iron. They'd hardly be worse off if you did, muttered the ancient hunger (beyond thin, it had starved into abstraction) before shrugging and shuffling off to its lair in the recesses of his psyche, where it would watch ever patient for another opportunity. It would watch for as long as he existed.

His mother, a mortal woman, had through the boons of heredity made him half human. His father distrusted this mortal half. In fits of blackest rage he even went so far as to urge his son to abandon his humanity entirely. It was the human half that Alucard treasured. This portion of his soul provided him a redoubt in the constant struggle to deny the predator half its depraved instinct to feast on the weak.

When he was exhausted, subjected to prolonged distress, and when the light of hope grew faint, the misanthropic monster reared. And in those moments he fought to avoid asking why these filthy animals were worth any bother at all.

Alucard paused to lean against the neon seared facade of a spinal fluid bar. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing eyelids shut. Ah, it was to be one of _those_ days.

It certainly worsened the situation when, earlier today, his superiors sprung their ambush and subjected him to an intense gauntlet of disciplinary "corrective measures."

Few cover jobs had proven more suitable to his lifelong mission than GP Special Division detective. The position let him work odd hours with nearly nonexistent supervision, and the police intelligence network kept him in touch with an expanding universe. But there were drawbacks too. An agent had to make at least an occasional appearance at his desk or else his superiors would suspect him of slacking, or worse, of having gone rogue.

Almost three months had passed since his check-in last week. A number of substantial credit withdrawals from the branch operational fund earmarked as "urban exploration consulting fees" had done little to help matters.

These latest sins required as penance a sustained battery of lectures delivered by glaring, ill-tempered simpletons. On top of this they heaped countless staff intervention meetings and hours entombed in the utilities closet they called his office, filling out paperwork. Alucard had endured all with flawless attentiveness and diligence. As a final punishment, his commander assigned him several new cases requiring immediate attention. Alucard had no time for them, but he couldn't well tell them that. So he had nodded and scraped and bowed and uttered "Yes Sirs" until they let him go. A crucial 24-hour cycle lost to the banal drudge-work of police bureaucracy, during which he had made no progress in tracking his father's activities.

At the last, he staggered out from the Hornet's Nest into the steam bath morning with a scrap of an idea clutched tight by his enervated mind: he would try the library.

After several deep breaths, Alucard returned to the present, glancing around while he struggled to regain perspective. Humans and aliens trudged past with faces blank or pinched with irritation. On the next block down, municipal police had set an alien trap. They stopped pedestrians of off-world origin, subjected them to search and seizure of any credits or valuables on their person, then sent them off with a boot to the ass. Unless they made the slightest attempt to resist the robbery, which in turn would earn them a beating and possibly a vanishing into a prison pit. In the alleys, fledgling gangs of adolescent toughs fingered their street cutters and planned how they would achieve the same with less pat downs and more bloodshed come nightfall.

Everywhere he pointed his dry, stinging eyes Alucard beheld the miserable, the sick, the barely living. Mortals had such short, dreary lives. From cradle to grave they fell victim to a civilization that demanded unquestioning compliance while giving back little more than heartache and false advertising. He pitied them, and in so pitying them reaffirmed the ancient covenant he held with humanity to do what was hardest. To punch the ugly universe back in its leering, loutish face. Keep swinging until it backed up a step, an inch, a micron. Any progress at all, no matter how small or easily erased, was a victory. If his mother had held true to this same conviction while the zealots tied her to the stake and soaked the kindling at her feet with oil, surely he could manage the same in this comparatively softer age.

Resolved, he walked on.

The sun burned the clouds into yellow-brown smog. Weather Control had scheduled a heavy rain for later, but there was no smell of an in-creeping storm amid the myriad odors of the gigapolis. Though it was impossible to see the moon through the cloud cover, Alucard sensed that ancient rock's inexorable tug. Like his father, direct sunlight would not kill him. And here again his mortal half proved a benefit, for he retained more of his strength in daylight, where Dracula's might would be much reduced. Day and night both belonged to him.

As he walked the fog swamping his mind began to lift. Alucard considered his options. Perhaps the time had come again to vanish from the sphere of society.

One silver lining of last night's ordeal had been the absence of even the slightest whisper of rumor that the Galactic Police were mobilizing in response to his father's presence. As hoped, the Federation slept in peaceful ignorance of the nightmare festering within their precincts.

Perhaps the Falcon was correct in his suggestion to leave Dracula to the Galaxy Police. They were not like the armies of man he knew from antiquity. Surely, with their vast resources and manpower—no. They had no experience with this evil. Many would lose their lives needlessly. Worse, who knew what dark knowledge his father might provide, willingly or otherwise, to the profit ravenous corporations who controlled the Federation.

Worse, if Alucard revealed all he knew to his superiors—obfuscate his own long history all he liked—questions would arise as to how he knew of Dracula. The GP would drill down into the mystery until they'd found something close to the truth. And then it would be he who was the hunted.

Once the crisis at hand reached its resolution, he would fake death and return to sleep, he decided.

* * *

Twisting decorative steel, flying buttresses like the exposed ribs of flayed victims, and brooding gothic stonework reared into the sky. Alucard had arrived at the Central Branch Public Library. The rest of the sleek cityscape leaned away, as if the future shrank from this bastion of the past. The building was an anachronism, much like Castlevania.

Alucard could remember when the Gothic Futura style had raged through the architecture circles of Mute City and just as quickly became passé, of which the Central Library was one of few surviving specimens. It seemed like mere months ago, but the taste for Gothic Futura architecture was three hundred years past. In Mute City, a fad encountered was a fad already dead.

He entered the foyer and paused, letting out a sigh. Sanctuary.

Warm coffee vapors emanated from the cafe attached to the lobby. Beyond the scanners and the material return intakes, one arrived suddenly into the soft orange glow of the study hall. Shelves containing books of mainstream interest ringed the room and every balcony overhead. This central chamber's vaulted splendor rose six stories high to a ceiling mural depicting scenes from the Truth War. Bands of philosopher warrior heroes brandishing memory blades and cyborg teachers blasting knowledge beams and hurling fact bombs into the massed faces of the Legion of Blessed Ignorance who marched at the command of Tabuu, the godling of Misinformation and Forgetting. The 2200's had been a strange century indeed.

The rare scent of paper suffused this space. Alucard loved the smell of genteelly decaying tree flesh. It had been so long since he encountered vellum or any other animal-based writing medium he'd forgotten that particular odor. But, against all odds, paper stayed in use. There were still those who believed with all their being that knowledge should be preserved in physical media, and there were some who preferred old mediums for study, for either physiological reasons or aesthetic ones. Leaves of paper stored in this building alone might outnumber Earth's population of wild trees, though as books were stolen or lost, folios of longer lasting material begun to fill in the gaps. In another century or three, even if the twelve remaining libraries on planet Earth survived, paper would join calfskin and papyrus in the dustbin of forsaken wonders.

Librarians and volunteers waved or nodded to Alucard as he strode by. He had become something of a regular in recent years. Today he ventured opposite the direction of his usual haunts: the occult, history, and fashion collections. Many passages opened from the study hall to smaller wings, each devoted to a specific subject.

Alucard skirted the enormous VR terminal wing, the sole destination of most library patrons. A shortcut through the graphic novel silo brought him to Civic Document Collections, which housed several centuries worth of newspapers, census records, criminal records, and other reference material containing the minutiae of a billion lives. Few dared these dusty hinterlands. To ply the dry strata of uncounted papers and nanofilm rolls in search of buried data fossils required no little manual labor.

While passing by the private study cubicles, he heard leaking from a shut door two voices moaning in unison. There was a tinge of hungry urgency to the noise. Lovers misappropriating library facilities for intensive physical studies was an everyday occurrence. Memories of his midnight struggle with Captain Falcon invaded his mind's eye, summoned by the sounds of passion. The big man's panting tickling his ear, the coarse scrape of stubble, the smell of soured sweat and fire retardant. Foolishness. Desiring an oaf like Falcon? A notion beyond asinine. Alucard put it out of his mind.

He blamed the lack of sleep and the moon. As the latter rose higher in the smog screened sky, it tugged all the harder, stirring his baser instincts awake to pace their cages. An aimless restlessness stole through him as he eyed the stacks, seeking a place to begin.

He was weary. And the search that lay before him was long.

It had taken him decades to plumb in full the vast database of the Federation Police. That vast repository of lore had failed to deliver a lead on the fate of the Belmonts and their distant relatives.

All families left some manner of data litter in their wake. Periodicals devoted to the mystic and the occult, stakeholder meeting minutes, arrest records, auction catalogs, estate sale advertisements, minor regional histories written by locals that at most sold a few hundred copies—buried in all this mess might be the clue he sought by which to track down a survivor of the doom laden family of hunters.

First, he would research. If he found nothing, what happened next would depend on whether or not Goroh succeeded in his task.

There yet remained a little time while Dracula consolidated his power and laid down war plans. With no word yet from Goroh, and if no other suitable help could be found, Alucard would undertake this mission the tried and true way. His way.

Alucard would venture forth into Castlevania alone and unaided. Likely the raid would end with his speedy demise.

Allies were scarce. Captain Falcon had attempted no contact and likely never would. The Phoenix refused outright. If Dracula committed no felonies related to time travel, then the matter was out of his jurisdiction. No Maria existed who would arrive at the fated hour to hand him the one thing he needed most. If the Master Librarian still lived within Castlevania, the old man would be a potential friend behind castle walls. The librarian loved jewels and gold, and Alucard had accrued plenty of those through the years.

Alucard pondered other remote options while pulling newspaper scans off the shelves. He would begin with obituaries.

Frowning as he estimated the time needed for even a quick skim of the available resources relevant to his search, Alucard turned a corner into the reading room closest to the city government archives. Entering, he froze. The space was occupied.

"Hello, son."

The Lord of Darkness reclined beside a table piled high with books. He was dressed in a breathtakingly expensive organic-origin fiber black suit lined with carmine, cut in the current fashion. Dracula somehow managed to exude an air of decadency merely by reading. The book in his hands was an encyclopedia of planets located within Federation space-time.

Medusa coiled nearby, an elegant sea foam-green dress stretching forever over the coils of her serpent body. She had looked bored, but now that Alucard stood before them her petulant frown turned upside down, lips parting to reveal rows of needle teeth.

The Grave Digger stood close by his master, dirt-painted shovel in hand. He stared at Alucard with eyes of white fire, but stayed where he was. Grave Digger was a relatively new servant of Dracula. At one time Alucard had confused him with the expert of unarmed combat known as the Grave Keeper, an older monster. Minions rose and fell in status within Dracula's armies according to arcane criteria known only to their eternal master. Sometimes there might be only a singular individual of a particular breed, and sometimes when Castlevania resurrected there were many of the same type marauding about. A monster might be weaker after a resurrection, or achieve a new level of might. It seemed Grave Digger had risen in both rank and power, from shock trooper to boss.

For a moment Alucard took leave of his senses, casting about for signs of human distress. This infernal band of library patrons had made no effort to disguise their true natures. He then recalled the obvious: that they existed now in a world of over 100,000 sapient species with exponentially more cultures. And while this diverse society knit a vast patchwork quilt of superstitious traditions, most kept such beliefs private. No two alien subcultures would agree on what constituted a supernatural threat.

Little wonder how Dracula and his vassals had escaped notice while brazenly visible in public. Others might find their characteristics rude or eccentric or vaguely threatening, but few in the Federation would see anything more shocking in Castlevania's tenants than what they encountered with their neighbors, their coworkers, or any random stranger passed by on a trip to the grocer's. The monsters of Dracula were, in Mute City, simply people.

Alucard cleared his mind and asked, "Why are you here?"

"Research. Every time I awaken, research," said Dracula. "Usually it is a wearying chore, for human history is the same story repeated endlessly. Worms fighting for a bigger share of the corpse, each claiming God speaks only to it. At least scientific progress proved more stimulating, once publishing finally began in earnest." He sighed as if disgusted, but could not hide the tension of excited discovery in his voice. "However, these last few centuries have surpassed my expectations. All my predictions have proven erroneous. The opening of human society to the galactic population at large has changed everything."

Alucard surveyed the other titles set on the table, hoping for a clue to his father's plans. Histories of F-Max and F-Zero, one massive tome of F-Zero Association regulations and bylaws fifty years out of date, fashion catalogs, racing guides, and a dozen books on physics. Father had always had his curiosities. The laboratories, the experiments—Castlevania had stood as a haven for scientific exploration through the darkest of ages, every bit as much as it was a citadel of fell powers. It had been Dracula's accumulated knowledge and Castlevania's science facilities, bubbling away centuries before humans would construct their pale imitations, which first attracted Alucard's mother, Lisa, to the dark lord.

A pale woman slunk from between colossal shelves into the reading room. She approached from the direction of the private study rooms, sucking off the tips of her fingers between rouge-painted lips. She was achingly beautiful. Alucard recognized her at once.

"Succubus!" he hissed.

"Finished with your breakfast, my dear?" Dracula asked.

She smirked, charming dimples sinking deep into porcelain cheeks. "I think he enjoyed it more than I. At the end, the look on his face was something like relief."

Dracula looked back to Alucard. "The beauty of it is, when they find the scraps and launch the investigation, there are at least six sentient species inhabiting this city capable of sucking all life force from a man and leaving a dried out husk behind. And demoness isn't one of them. Sweet anonymity at last. A far cry from the old days, isn't it my boy? When a couple of innocent marks on the neck were enough to rouse raving priests and torch bearing mobs of peasants. What marvelous times these are."

Alucard did not reach for his weapon, and neither did his father. Outside Castlevania, libraries were the only kind of hallowed ground they each recognized, and therefore were safe. He glanced at Succubus, still licking her lips. There was no safe place for mortals, however.

By all appearances, he and Dracula had surprised each other with this chance meeting. Perhaps with conversation he could bait his father into revealing some hint of his sinister designs. "And what knowledge do you seek here that would be of use to you? The flow of ages has borne away your own antediluvian studies into a past as quaint as it is distant."

Dracula shut the encyclopedia and tapped the book spine against his chin. "Let me turn this table on you before I'm tempted to flip it over. What brings you to a library this day, son? Have you come to take my advice and search for a new life? Please tell me you've higher ambitions than playing at night watchman and serving as my self-elected gaoler until universal heat death."

"Someone has to keep mankind safe from you."

"That someone is you, and no other. Because the others you used to rely upon are all gone. Ah, that's what brings you hence. Tracking down a distant by-blow of the Belmont line, or Belnades, or whatever straws remain to grasp at. Someone to play the assassin for you. Never admitting your long-held objectives have lost all the context which gave them meaning. It's time for you to forget about the past." Dracula looked down to a plain wedding band upon his finger. He twisted it to and fro. "We will never again love one another as father and son. I have accepted that. Yet we can still respect one another and go our separate ways."

"Getting laid couldn't hurt," said Succubus.

"Better you had ssstayed asleep and turned to dust," offered Medusa.

Alucard ignored the women. "And that is what you're here to do today? Finding a new life as a F-Zero pilot of all things?"

"Yes. And a new place to live. I may be undead, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't travel and experience life, as my Lisa once urged me to do." He gave the ring one last twist, then cracked his knuckles.

"There's no place for you among humans."

Dracula shrugged. "What of it? It's a huge galaxy out there. There's space enough for me at last. More space than any of us could ever use in a trillion years. Would that you realize the same and drop this tired crusade. Your mother used to accuse me of being unable to grow out of outmoded mindsets. In the end she urged me to forgive her murderers and not fall back into old habits. How disappointed she would be to see you now. The past has trapped you more than it ever possessed me."

There is a level of fury where one no longer feels heated and filled to burst, but rather cold and empty. Alucard had reached this extreme. "She would be disgusted to hear her name evoked as a weapon with which to bludgeon me. If you would convince me you still cherish her memory, then stop using my mother against me."

"Fair enough." Dracula rose. He turned off the book and tucked it away into his overcoat. "I had hoped that where I failed to slap sense into you, her shade might shame you into wisdom. So be it. Listen to no one. Wage your petty war for the thousandth time if you must. But get it over quickly. I'll be moving on soon."

"To where?"

Dracula favored him with a sly look and smiled. "Why would I tell you that? Better for both of us if you don't know."

"You're not some wily criminal finally reformed to a measure of decency. You're an accursed being, doomed forever to inflict torment and destruction on the race that cursed you. I am honor bound to make sure all life within and without the Federation remains ignorant of the devastation you must inevitability inflict upon them."

While Alucard spoke, Dracula had turned his back to leave. The vampire's shoulders slumped. Clenching talons crushed the hat in his hand. The lights buzzed and dimmed. His father's shadow spread, growing deeper, taking on the shapes of thorns. When Dracula spoke again, there were echos, resonances to his voice which had not been there before.

"Devastation… inflicted upon them? Tally up the evils humanity has visited upon me, you, and all the others not among their kin. And then sum the grand total of my sins against man. Placed beside each other, which score of iniquities towers highest, son?" Dracula headed off Alucard's objection with a snarl and a raised claw. "No, do not speak of ethics to me. Do not bore me with a priest's hollow rhetoric. You would keep humans ignorant of me and those like me? As if their inherited unknowing was a blessing of protection."

"That is my intention, yes. By your own admission, you are glad that history has forgotten you."

Dracula hissed, long and venomous. The shadow shrouding him gained palpable substance, sending seeking tendrils to the ceiling and shelves.

"Then I can almost pity them. It is a poor gift you would bestow upon these worms. Tell me son, how well did ignorance serve the people of Wallachia and Transylvania? How well did their proudly hoarded ignorance serve them in the long night, as my servants went among them and harvested their wives and husbands, sons and daughters, infants squalling in the crib? Did their pious refusal to learn or think, in the end, place their souls beyond my reach? When I spit their corpses to roast upon the fires they themselves set upon each other's homes and cities, did their prayers to their idiot god drown out my call?"

Dracula bent over, as if out of breath, but of course he needed no such thing.

The room lightened, the shadows fled, and the air released its charge. Dracula raised his head, pale skin gone gray. Though his expression was haggard, he met Alucard's studying gaze without flinching. "You see? We have but to hear a whisper of summons and the ages old pain tears free of its prison and comes raging back. I am desperate to escape the past. The wounds that never heal. The sorrow which at times seems the only living thing inside me."

Though Alucard kept perfectly still and composed, inside he shook. Dracula had described his life's condition with flawless precision.

Dracula held out a hand, its talons long. Father had never liked clipping his nails. "No rune nor blessing can rid me of it. You know this monster well, Adrian, for the same lives inside you. Let us both try our best to keep it under lock and key, and hope in the passing of ages even deathless loss may die." He stood thus with arm extended, expectant. The gesture surprised Alucard utterly.

In the sudden quiet, Alucard found himself fixated on odd details. The absence of library staff, who had all found better places to be. The way his father's wide palm and slender, graceful fingers were larger clones of his own hands. The way a hitch had come into Medusa's and Succubus' breathing.

Focused on anything but the one offer he thought never to receive, freely given and within reach. Anything but to look directly upon the desolation which he and his father shared alike.

The moment bled away. Alucard did not reach out to clasp his father's hand. Bled of wrath and a stranger to joy, Alucard had nothing left inside to offer Dracula in return but his own persistent emptiness.

Dracula smirked and withdrew his arm. "Too much to hope for. What a nasty habit, hope. And me, old enough to know better. Well, good luck to you, son. I must be on my way. Much to do. Of late, I find my nights consumed in speed trials and catching up with thousands of years of philosophical and scientific progress."

Uncertainty as cold as his prior wrath stole into Alucard. His father was playing a more subtle game than usual, and the sensation grew that he had already blundered the first several moves.

"Such dishonesty is unlike you. You cannot expect me to believe your claims of benign intent are real. Not when, seconds earlier in this very room, you were raving with blood lust."

Dracula set his hand to a nearby book case, as if he might swear an oath on the one thing he still held sacred: knowledge. "I have seldom been more real than I am in this moment. I swear by Lisa, and on my castle's soul, that I, Vlad Tepes, do set aside my long standing vendetta against humanity."

Alucard could make no sense of it. Again, his father's words had rattled him. "Why stop now? After you have slain so many, and ruined countless lives, you think you can simply walk away."

"I do not think it. I know. There is no court left to convict me. I have survived, the legacy of my tyranny has not." He smiled wide, fangs glinting. "I declare myself the righteous victor. The war of the night is at long last over. The Federation will enjoy its ignorance of me just as you wished, all without a single drop of blood spilled. Is this not what you wanted?"

"What has changed you?" Alucard asked. His voice had grown hoarse. There was a trap here and he'd already stepped into it. But who had set it? His father, or himself?

"You think perhaps my long stay in limbo has softened my heart?"

"No. You have no heart."

This elicited a midnight dark laugh from the towering vampire. "Right you are. Is my reasoning not plain to see? In the scale of a galactic civilization, we vampires have become irrelevant. Our struggles, our vengeance an obscure historical footnote no one cares to read. There is nothing left to fight over. Any act of retribution on my part would be meaningless sadism committed against an uncomprehending victim."

"I can not believe this. A wolf will not go against its own nature and lay down with the lambs and content himself with leaves and roots."

The Lord of Darkness shrugged. "Can't believe? Or won't?"

"I could ask the same of you. Can you truly purge yourself of the habit of war? You've indulged your unholy appetites for centuries." If Alucard's hunger was emaciated, then his father's would be well fleshed and gargantuan.

"Think about yourself first. Without the war, what purpose will you have?"

"None," Alucard admitted. At uttering the word, a bell of ice tolled a cold reverberation through the voids of unending night within him. I am my father's son, and I have not soul enough to mourn, he thought.

Dracula looked on, his expression amused. "Come now, your life can't be so empty as all that. Ah, but it is, isn't it." A statement, not a question. "You were always so good at hunting down heroes to defeat me, you should put those skills to use and track down some friends. And a lover. You are more beautiful than humans, it should be easy for you. Most of those Belmonts were handsome lads. I always assumed you'd settle down with one or more of them."

For some reason, Captain Falcon's face flashed across Alucard's mind. Alucard balled his fists and bit his lower lip. He refused the allure of his father's advice, muddling his mind and confusing his thoughts. Clarity of purpose. Unwavering commitment to what was right. He would triumph, these sophistries be damned.

"Empty promises and clever rhetoric cannot hide from me your true nature. I will see you defeated once more."

Dracula's brown creased. Though he still smirked, a shadow of sadness fell over his expression. "I've already won the war, son. I have outlived the ignorant who made my existence a literal hell. Better still, I have outlived their ideas, their faith! And if you force me to, I'll outlive you as well. Good day."

That said, Dracula smoothed the creases from his hat and headed for the nearby western exit in long, easy strides. He paused to exchange compliments with the circulation librarian on his way out.

"You really should follow his example," said Succubus over her porcelain white shoulder as she drifted after her master.

"I'm hoping you'll be ssstupid enough to try him again," Medusa hissed. "I would enjoy a rematch."

The Grave Digger, last to file past, paused. From his long, moldy coat he produced a pair of omni-spectrum googles and handed them to Alucard. They were of a model popular with the criminal underworld, especially burglars. And bandits. The casing was pitted and scratched with hard use. Some spatter of dark liquid had dried on the lenses. Digger made a slight bow and took his leave.

Hot city air swept into the building as Dracula exited the building, a beautiful monster on each arm. The wind billowed Alucard's pale hair, throwing the strands into his face.


	7. Monster Dance

Keeping to the side roads and shadowed alleys, Falcon arrived as the last glow of day burned orange through the clouds. Two and a half hours till sundown. He parked the Blue Falcon Urban in the back, alongside the hovercycles and bio-gas bikes of the other patrons. Several belonged to F-Zero pilots. He flipped the bouncer bot a credit chit and shouldered aside the back door.

Entering the main room of the Spin and Burn was like intruding on the neon-lit grotto of a clan of cyberpunk cave dwellers. The place sucker punched the senses with too loud music and more bad smells than a hard drinker had excuses. Dim amber lighting couldn't hide how years of smoke had stained the walls and blackened the ceiling. They hosed down the bare cement floor with acid once a week.

Over six decades old, the dive was as layered in history as it was in grime. The Spin and Burn had a reputation as the number one hangout for F-Zero racers in town for the Grand Prix, which by tradition held its first race in Mute City. Its confines had witnessed countless bar fights, murders, and washed up has-beens filling their whiskey glasses with tears. Just as its restrooms were breeding grounds to more accidental pregnancies and STD infections than any other in the gigapolis. In recent years its stature had waned as the new generation of pilots preferred to water their holes in the greater privacy of high-end clubs, or bars where they wouldn't contract a disease just by brushing against a wall.

Falcon stopped frequenting this shithole when his popularity first skyrocketed. Sure, he was welcomed as a F-Zero racer, doubly so as the reigning champ, but no pilot was more alone than the one who stood atop the mountain. Nowhere reminded him of that more than the Spin and Burn.

All eyes locked on Captain Falcon the moment he made his entrance. A second later most were pretending they'd never looked at all. The patrons strutting around the zilliard tables ignored him. The losers and animals hunched over their drinks stole glances while Octoman and Baba glared in hate from the corner high table. No one stood up to start something. No one so much as pointed. Each and all knew they were unworthy of his fist. Nobody wanted video capture on the web of their being humbled by the knee or the elbow or even the hip roll of the Falcon.

Falcon split the crowd over the slopes of his mighty pectorals, hunters and pilots and wanted scum plowed aside if they refused to clear a path. The bartender kept a carefully blank face as the champion bellied up to the bar. He took the order for a Sex on the Track Barrier with a whiskey chaser without a comment.

Hunched over the cocktail (which electrocuted the tongue with tiny static shocks as one drank it), Falcon listened in on the crowd while pretending the bar patrons didn't exist. Bits and pieces of conversations drifted in. Mostly the same rumors he'd been hearing.

"You heard about the guy who's tearing up the underground?"

"Thought they got shut down. They still run those sketchy races?"

"More than ever! Lot of new money floating around in the illegal circuits these days, and the cops are paid well to keep their snouts out of it."

"Old Arbin…"

"Falcon over there—took him out. Promoters demanded the slot filled."

"This new guy. He ran everyone into the ground. Already got a body count in the double digits, man! He'll place in the Prix for sure."

"No way they'd let him race. Broke too many rules. And the F-NoGoes are mad enough to riot."

"Let 'em. No one cares what protesters think. The Lord will drive again. If they didn't ban him for dusting Gazelle by now, then he's in."

"Still might. Committee's reliable about being unreliable. They'd totally ambush ban someone at the last second. Doesn't help Gazelle wasn't in with You Know Who."

"You're stupid. Shadow Lord's got the juice. Got his own fanbase trending. F-Zero thrives on whatever's the Next Big Thing. The committee will look the other way as long as he doesn't go too far. They've done that before."

"Drives a maxed out black car. Didn't sweat Falcon for a millisecond."

"Yeah, saw that…"

"For a minute I thought it was Shadow's Black Bull, back from the dead."

"Dodongo dislikes smoke."

And so on. The jibber-jabber of fools. Basic race gossip. Ordinarily Falcon loved him some race dish. Hearing Arbin's name whispered again and again bled the savor out of listening in. The reminder of Shadow Lord's lethal first outing spoiled the taste of his drink.

One thing stuck out. Shadow Lord remained in the Grand Prix roster. In contrast, the F-Zero Execution Committee had worked fast to cover up the mess the Skull made. F-Zero's high rate of mortality and brutality drew protests from around the galaxy. Political disfavor intensified after the 'Horrific Grand Finale' five years ago left fourteen pilots dead in the worst pileup the sport had ever seen. Last thing the rich bastards behind the race wanted was a serial killer pilot burning a hole through all the good PR they'd paid for. And yet here was a pilot as lethal as the worst accident in recent race history, free and clear to proceed. Shadow Lord was the season's hot new star. This stank worse than the Spin and Burn's toilets.

A hand clapped down on his shoulder. "Was worried you wouldn't come."

The old man standing behind him radiated a strange, solemn gravity. He leaned on a walking stick, trembling slightly, though his stooped frame and limbs still showed some muscle. Appearances fooled. Silver Neelsen was strong of arm and spirit. A hot shower to relax the aches and pains, and all frailty left him. Falcon knew this. Knew it very well. Silver delighted in briefing him on the gruesome details every chance he got.

F-Zero's oldest surviving pilot, Silver was ninety-nine years young. A mutual friend of Falcon and Jody. Dressed in his usual costume of tank crew duds and F-Zero pilot's cap and goggles, the impression he made was of a retired army colonel gone senile. Again, a false read. Neelsen's mind held together even better than his body. Every year he puttered out to the tracks in the Night Thunder, his vintage F-Max clunker, to lose another Gran Prix. Decade after decade, he never came in last, and raced well enough to avoid getting himself and anyone else killed. Some said he was an embarrassment to the sport. Others held that Silver was an exemplar of the virtue of persistence. To Falcon he was a fond annoyance off and on the track.

Falcon suppressed a sigh. Much to do. Better places to be. But he was here and the chore needed to be done and he refused to half-ass anything.

"I contacted you as soon as the deadline she set passed," said Silver.

Falcon looked up into the waft of beery breath. "Hey old sport. What news?"

Center a wild mane of pale silver hair, Silver Neelsen's forehead wrinkled up double, brow forming a more severely angled V of knotted muscle. "I'm sorry, sonny. Figured you'd been keeping your ear to the pavement. I didn't want to be the one to tell you about this, but Jody's been taken."

Falcon spat out several credits worth of liquor. "What you say? Taken _where_?"

"Vanished. She ain't there no more. Gone, and no one knows to where." A sad light came into his eyes.

Falcon shook his head. "That's nothing. People in her line of work go 'missing' all the time. It's an old trick for taking the heat off their trail. Hunters do it too. Jody probably went to ground after discovering something that was supposed to stay buried." For a government agent, she had a rare talent for catching the Federation with its pants down. Jody had much practice at laying low to wait out shitstorms.

Neelsen shook his head, beard wagging. "No, son. This is different. She's not the only one. You haven't heard? About the abductions?"

"I'm sure you're about to tell me," said Falcon, signaling for another round.

Silver Neelsen sat down and helped himself to Falcon's chaser. "Whole mess of people going missing this last week. Pilots. Pit crewmen. Even a few officials. All of them connected to the F-Zero industry in one way or another. Their hideouts and businesses torn up something awful." He drew close and whispered: "Folks are calling it the F-Zero Massacre. Even the Galaxy Police are shifting their lazy butts, sending out detectives to look into it. Two days ago, Jody was working a case over at EAD Engines when—" he snapped his fingers for emphasis. "Was hoping you might know something."

"I do." EAD was the industry leader in F-Zero machine engines. Falcon thought of the hover hearse flitting over the track's rough patches with ease, graceful under the hand of its hidden pilot. He thought of a pale man in his bathtub, spitting lunatic prophecies of doom. "Witnesses?"

"No one who saw anything that mattered. She was tracking a suspect who had come to the plant to commission some custom parts for a new racing machine. Suddenly all the lights in the building go out. Backup power never comes on. By the time they get everything working again, there's no trace of Jody or this mystery client. Not even a drop of blood or a scorch line of weapons discharge. EAD ain't talking to nobody."

"It'll be weeks until a court can force them to turn over evidence, if ever," muttered Falcon. "Assuming they have anything to give up."

The old man nodded sagely. "After I burned some incense for her, the first person I thought about was you. 'The ol' captain will tear this city in half in search of her,' I said. Before I could don my jacket and set out, a courier dropped this into my package bin." He plopped a padded envelope down on the bar. Falcon examined it carefully for sabotage as Neelsen nattered on. "It came with instructions. Jody wanted you to have this if she didn't come back the next day to reclaim it from me. As you might surmise, I haven't heard a peep from her since."

"Sorry. I should've kept my ears open. I've been… busy." Falcon set the envelope down, a heavy weight building in the parts of his chest which once dealt in air.

Silver snorted. "Ain't me you're going to have to apologize to." His tone softened. "Nothing anyone could've done. If Jody didn't see the danger clear enough to escape, who else would've known enough to help?"

I know a guy who did, thought Falcon. Pale and beautiful, lounging in another man's private sanctuary like he was entitled to it. Falcon fought to keep his arm shaking from the building rage. Kept his face stony.

"Official record says no one's seen a thing. What have you heard?"

The old man shifted on the stool beside Falcon, eyeing the empty drink glasses. Falcon ordered another round, with a pair of beers. Silver licked his lips and continued on.

"Well, the Federation won't let something like this go out to the news hacks. Rumor channels are alive with blurry video captures of the other kidnappings. They look like clever fakes, pranks, but maybe aren't. Most show a strange posse of exotic xenos grabbing the victims, pulling them away into shadows or down sewer drains. My contact on the force told me over at EAD Engines there was plenty of evidence Jody didn't go without a fight. Plasma scorching on the walls, ceiling. Odd little piles of ash the lab couldn't do anything with. Weird stuff. Same with some of the other kidnappings but no one has solid evidence. No known crime organizations have left their calling card."

"I'll look into it," said Falcon.

Jody would be furious if her reputation as a hard bitten bad ass was tarnished by getting caught in a damsel-in-distress situation. Best get to her before any of her military buddies did. They'd never let her live it down. Falcon was her one friend who knew how to keep a secret. He took the whiskey shot and tipped the bartender triple.

Then he opened the envelope.

Inside, an issue of Track Gods. A 'November' from five years ago. Extra glossy, printed on real paper, he could tell by that unique smell found nowhere else. Limited print runs marketed to hardcore fans with credits to burn.

Falcon recognized this particular copy. He'd signed it for Jody. Might be worth half an average paycheck in credits. He flipped to his profile and a write-up of his prospects for that year's Grand Prix. There was his signature, scribbled in black marker. There was also a folded note on cheap resign 'paper'. Falcon opened it and read. Read it twice. Then put the note back and rose from his seat.

Magazine in hand, he took a step towards the exit.

"Where're you off to?" asked Neelsen.

"Going to meet an old acquaintance for a late dinner." If knuckle sandwiches counted as food. "Ask him a few questions, see what he knows about these xenos." Ask him real hard.

"We're all rootin' fer ya, captain," Silver Neelsen said.

"Yeah, yeah." Falcon hesitated, a name coming to mind. "Hey. You ever hear of anyone named Dracula?"

"Can't say as I have." The old man's face turned thoughtful. He sagely stroked at his beard for a few seconds. "I might've seen the name in a university literature coarse a couple times. Damn, that must've more than 70 years ago. I went to school for a while, you know. But I had to drop out. Too many illegitimate offspring to feed."

"Nothing else?"

Old Man shrugged. "Naw. Kids name themselves all kinds of weird crap nowadays." He snapped up a beer and drained the bottle in three long pulls. Wiping foam from his whiskers, his eyes suddenly lit up. "Hey. Is this Drac the one who took Jody?"

"Don't know yet. Thanks." Falcon took his leave.

Silver Neelsen rubbed his nose with a finger and nodded, setting into the fizzled out Sex on the Barrier. "Anything for an old friend."

* * *

Samurai Goroh kept late hours at his Mute City office. Falcon passed the remaining hour till nightfall watching the castle.

It no longer mattered if the crescent moon hanging over the whole scene was real or not. What held his attention now were the winged things circling the towers and cupolas. Probably bats. At least, he hoped they were bats. Some looked a little big for flying rodents, but then distance and a polluted atmosphere could play funny tricks with the eyes. Once, he thought he saw red glints where the eyes would be, winking in his direction.

Smacking lips on a dry mouth, Falcon wished he'd brought a bottle of whiskey.

Turning binocular mode onto the building itself revealed slate shingle roofs sagging under the weight of ages. The stone of the walls was pitted and the mortar between blocks crumbling. Scrutinize as hard as you liked, each level down revealed more authentic detail. Almost as if this place was exactly what it appeared to be. Amazing anyone would spend the credits for recreating the ancient in a city obsessed with everything five-years-into-the-future new.

The gate looked no less solid than last time, but it was nothing that would keep him out. A roving gang of delinquents could cut their way in with their phone lasers. Just like with Silver, Falcon was betting appearances deceived. Every bit of metal along the outer wall probably ran a current. Security drones no doubt waited in their aeries to swarm out in defense once the lifesign detectors triggered. Surface-to-air laser arrays would burn any flying intruder out of the air. No one had sprayed graffiti on the wall, which was a miracle in and of itself.

A cold damp breeze rolled over the fortifications and into the street, carrying with it the noises. Sounded like the master of the manor was hosting a party. People talking and laughing from far off. Music like he'd never heard before. The melody rose and fell in a lush, sweeping waltz, played on archaic instruments of wood and string. The music evoked strange emotions he had no words to describe.

As he lingered, the good time noises would occasionally spasm into something else—less like the party goers were laughing and more like they were moaning. Screaming.

Well, sometimes distance played funny tricks with sound too.

The more he surveyed the gloomy place, the harder it was to think about anything else. Falcon set his jaw and resolved to take that tour later. Time had come to check in on Goroh.

"Soon," he whispered to the castle.

Goroh's main base of operations was in Red Canyon, on another planet, where he ran an old-fashioned desert bandit outfit. But he had other shops established on a few of the worlds hosting F-Zero racetracks. Goroh decamped from one to the next as the Grand Prix progressed, keeping up with his big city interests. For the Mute City hideout, a decrepit furniture warehouse down by a dry river bed, where there'd been docks decades ago.

Goroh didn't think Falcon knew where these offices were. Falcon had to smirk at that.

Jody's note had been a surveillance log, three pages long, each line time stamped at fifteen minute intervals. Dated four nights ago. It described Goroh and a few of his trusted henchmen approaching Dracula's residence, breaking and entering, and then some hours later Goroh emerging from the estate, alone.

This document informed Falcon of three things. First, Goroh had information about Dracula. Second, Goroh was now a prime target for these serial abductions. Third, Dracula's home address.

And, really, he shouldn't have been surprised. But he was. The castle! Back in his old safe house, they'd practically been neighbors.

During the drive over, the lead foil sky dumped its heavy burden of rain thirty hours ahead of schedule; the Mute City weather control board had agreed to empty the cloud systems of their accumulated condensation ahead of race track construction above city center. Far off in the steam-swirled night, sirens screeched a final warning to seek cover. Knuckle-sized drops of watered down acid splattered against the BFU-02's windshield. The rain droplets combined and snaked over the blazing blue paint job, nipping all the way. The acid's teeth found no purchase. He had weather-proofed the BFU-02 until it could shrug off sulfuric acid without the lacquer so much as discoloring. It was his own skin that needed minding.

Lightning raged in the sky. Bolts of purple and white hooked sun-hot fingers of plasma into collectors hovering above the city. Raw energy was one of Mute City's biggest exports, harvested thus every week of the year. Climate catastrophe monetized.

Captain Falcon arrived. The old warehouse windows were dark. No vehicles parked outside. No one out on watch. That gave him pause.

After a moment's deliberation, he took out a can of pricey, specially formulated grease and smeared a big glob of it over the lower part of his face and neck the helmet did not cover. Activated the breathing filter. Like hell he was going to risk parking in the car port. A moment to double-check that his race suit formed a tight seal with the boots and gloves, and then he stepped out into the downpour.

Rain trickled warm down his chin. The lights stayed off as he slid around the back and up the shaky steps to the second story office. No goons lumbered outside to stop him, not that they would've slowed him down.

Falcon wasn't surprised to find the office empty. He was surprised to see rain water funneling down a hole burst through the ceiling. Wild sword swipes and blunt impacts had lacerated and punctured the fake wood paneled walls. Shards of a shattered katana blade lay scattered on the soggy floor. No piece of the cheap furniture was left standing upright, not even the desk. The desk drawers and file cabinets remained locked where they had not been smashed open. Plenty of destruction, but no obvious sign of robbery. Whoever had done this had wanted the man himself and didn't care to disguise their intentions.

On a hunch, Falcon disabled the breathing filter.

Odd smells lingered. The tangy odor of fear—probably from Goroh. Something rank, like wet dog, and freshly dug soil. Someone or something had tracked mud into the office but no shoe prints were visible. Falcon crouched down for a closer look. Long, gray animal hairs floated in the expanding puddle.

Underneath the racket of the storm came the distinctive crunch of footfalls on the gravel walkway outside. Falcon hunkered down beside the desk, away from the windows. He waited, and listened. Acid rain battered the filthy windows and made a percussion section of the roof. Thunder cracked and boomed. The air at least was silent for the weather controllers permitted no wind.

A heavy thud from the ceiling sent him down into a deeper crouch. Something big had landed on the roof, setting the light fixtures swaying on their cables. Fiber boards creaked as it stalked towards the hole in the ceiling. A hulking irregular shadow hoved into view over the rim and sniffed at the air through a long snout jagged with fangs. It began to growl, low and grinding, a growing storm still more furious and closer than the one blowing outside.

This was no time to play the paragon. They had humiliated a dear friend. They didn't deserve a fair fight. And he had no idea of what he was up against here. Besides, they had taken Goroh, and that he would not abide. Samurai Goroh had always been his bastard to take.

Falcon reached slowly, smoothly down and unbuckled the holster clasp. He drew the pistol. Ran a thumb over the words from Jody, _with consideration,_ engraved on the grip.

No use going for the door. This thing would hear him. Besides, that wasn't his style. Silent, Falcon set the sites not on the snuffling shape peering down through the hole but on the section of roof supporting the thing. He pulled the trigger three times.

It was a weapon designed to win battles with ultimate effectiveness. The pistol sounded as if it exploded each time it discharged. The ceiling bust into matchwood. The thing on the roof also burst as it leapt back a second too late. He caught a glimpse of dark fur and flashing eyes, and then came the frantic scribbling of claws on corrugated plasteel and yelps of pain. In seconds all sound of the creature faded into the wet, restless Mute City night. The rain funneling down onto the floor ran black with blood. He kissed the hot barrel. Had to love Chozo tech. Every piece those birds had crafted was a classic.

Falcon kicked down the door and bulled outside. A man one and a half times taller than he was waited on the walkway. This one had seen some hard, high impact living if his travesty of a face was anything to go by. The sawbones that had sewed him back together must've held a fanciful notion of what constituted reconstructive surgery. Arms thicker that Falcon's head (wearing the helmet) flexed, well oiled boulders sliding under discolored skin. The big man rumbled deep in his huge, sloping chest. On his shoulder a little human perched like a pet. So hunched was this one's spine his knees were nearly level with his shoulders.

The coats and shirts and pants they wore were a thousand years out of fashion, and judging from their state of repair, looked as if they'd been bought while in fashion. Some of the wear and tear was recent. The front of the big man's overcoat had been cut to ribbons, as if by a sword.

The alien relic still hung heavy in Falcon's fist. Seemed like this was a night for celebrating the archaic.

"Sorry about your dog," said Falcon.

The hairy thing, whatever it had been, was nowhere in sight. The tiny hunchback cackled. The big man's corpse face didn't so much as twitch. His yellow dead eyes stayed locked on Falcon. The acid rain seemed not to bother the odd couple.

The dwarf produced a scroll of parchment from his britches. He unfurled it, struggling to shelter the tattered document from the corrosive downpour using his own body. It got soaked anyways. He looked up at Falcon, looked back at the scroll, then up to Falcon again. Then he put the smoking parchment away and whispered into big man's ear.

"The Master wants drivers from the big race. You are the champion of this grand spectacle, are you not?" asked the hunchback in a creaking voice.

"Yeah, that's me. You're the ones who took Goroh."

"The fat oriental chap, yes. We asked nicely for him to come along, but he made such a fuss. You have more sense, yes? Want to avoid ruining that nice, handsome face, yes?" He rubbed his hands together with glee. Falcon couldn't be sure in all the rain, but the hunchback appeared to be drooling.

"Oh, I got way less sense than Goroh. Better idea. Why don't I give you guys autographs instead? On your skulls. Written by my fist. Who do I make them out to?"

The hunchback tittered. "I'm Igor." He nodded at the big man. "He is simply called the Creature. True name known only to himself."

Falcon put the gun away. It wasn't needed here. Rain drops landing on him hissed and evaporated into steam.

"And the gentleman behind you is known as the Grave Digger," said Igor.

Falcon heard the shovel scrape across gravel. He spun and caught the flat of its blade flush on the lips. The taste of blood and metal washed over his tongue. Falcon grabbed the shovel handle and got a boot to the breadbasket for his trouble. Hot pain in the shape of a boot print couldn't compare to the white fury ignited by indignation.

No better name existed for a man who had just dug his own grave.

Knocked on his back, Falcon looked up to the looming Grave Digger, shovel raised high. He was almost as tall and as stacked as the Creature. A gray face hidden beneath a round brim hat and a high coat collar. The dirt-crusted blade flashed down. Falcon caught it between his knees, twisted it out of Digger's grasp.

Before the other could sit him back down with another stomping, Falcon somersaulted forward and buried his helmeted forehead into the rock hard abdomen. Digger grunted, then grabbed him by the throat. The rich smell of freshly shoveled black soil filled Falcon's nose. Gray fingers tightened further on his throat, cutting off the air.

Digger lifted Falcon off the ground, held him up as if to better examine him by the light of the fractal lightning forks racing above. Black spots began fluttering through Falcon's vision. The expression of cold satisfaction on Digger's face transformed into sullen befuddlement as the hand he had clamped down on his victim's throat began to smoke.

Falcon Kick, the captain mouthed. He gave Digger the full works right on the chin. Then the other foot swung up and punted the head hard enough to snap it back. Grave Digger staggered, but the hat did not come off. Falcon wheeled his legs around, bicycle kicking the man's face until Digger let him drop.

Falcon gasped through filters to catch up on oxygen while Digger and his clothes crumbled into lifeless dirt. In seconds, only the hat remained behind.

Springing up about-face from a sitting position, Falcon smashed his nose right into the Creature's bloated knee.

"Huuurrrnnn," the Creature said. He swatted Falcon with a closed backhand. The world turned white as if lightning had filled the entire sky.

Falcon blinked, the rain burning at his throat where Digger's fingers had rubbed off the grease. He'd flown over ten meters from where he'd started. Falcon wished he'd been awake for the flight. The Creature closed on him with the slow inevitability of the tides, his gait uneven because his legs were not the same length.

More alarming were the sharp teeth needling into Falcon's shoulder. Igor gnawed rodent-like on the space between the crook of his neck and the durable material of his racing suit. The hunchback jumped away with shocking agility, licking his lips. "Master must always have the necks, and the faces unspoiled. But he said nothing about the rest of you. Hee hee."

Falcon shot out an arm, reaching for that tiny misshapen head. The Creature's hand closed around his wrist. The ring finger was longer than the middle, each digit featuring a different skin tone. Falcon also noticed the Creature had two thumbs.

"Haarrr." The monster cocked back his other fist and threw a punch with enough force the air popped into the vacuum left in its wake. A lesser man might've passed out upon hearing his own ribs crack. Not Falcon. He stayed awake as the colossal fist plowed into his chest. The Creature kept a hold of his other arm, dangling him high to flap in the wind. The next cheap shot came across his chin in hopes of finishing the job Digger's shovel had begun. Falcon blacked out a little on that one. The knuckles, diamonds on the nose of a bone and muscle battering ram, hammered into his side next, right below the lowest rib.

Falcon spat blood on the big man's boots. "That all you got, you overgrown sponge?"

The Creature smiled with a mouth full of mismatched teeth, and by doing so profaned the very concept of smiling. He seized Falcon by the leg and hammer threw him over a nearby slope.

This time Falcon was awake to enjoy the trip. He crash landed inside a fenced lot of gas tank arrays. Falcon grunted, and propped himself up on his elbow. Besides the ribs, everything felt intact enough to function.

Sensing low light conditions, the helmet's infrared vision activated. The tanks were a deep violet, the rain and the graveled ground blue. The jittering outline of Igor darted from a cool purple blotch of shadow. The dwarf cackled, and hopped up and down on Falcon's chest before springing away out of reach.

A loud rattling and snapping of metal links as the Creature arrived, breaching the fence face first. While Igor registered as orange with heat, the Creature was barely warmer than a tank of compressed gas. Falcon kippered to his feet, gritting his teeth against the searing agony of his rib cage, and struck a pose. "C'mon!"

Acid rain dribbled down their faces as each took stock of the other. Falcon began the charge and the Creature chugged up the aisle between the tanks to meet him. Faster on his feet than the lumbering monster, Falcon closed the gap and let loose a flurry of jabs. It was like trying to tenderize a marble slab with just his fists. The Creature made a grating noise like laughter and belted out a torrid right hook that scooped the air with a great _whoosh_. Falcon barely ducked in time.

The wet, squirming mass of Igor hopped onto his shoulders. Dirty claws scratched for the catches of his helmet. Falcon snatched the writhing, screeching body and threw it in the Creature's face. Calling forth the ancient power, the Captain pulled back his arm for a mighty strike.

"Falcon…" Acid rain and murderous hunchbacks had used up all his patience. It was time to end this. Even so, they didn't rate the Falcon Punch. "Elbow!"

The bent joint erupted into fire. Igor, still clinging to the Creature's greasy locks, had a split second to turn and see it coming, his deformed face twisted double with horror. The Falcon Elbow exploded Igor's body. Bloody giblets scattered in every direction. The Falcon Elbow bored on through until it slammed to a halt on the bedrock of monster skull. The Creature shuddered, but remained standing.

Falcon backed up and let fly his second best move. "Falcon Kick!" The Creature caught the meaty thigh just as the flames of the Falcon manifested over the limb. The giant blinked off what remained of his friend, still dribbling down the striated patchwork of his face. Then he looked down at the leg held in his fist, burning with the Power.

The Creature opened that travesty of a mouth and roared loud enough to shake Falcon's teeth. Whipped off the ground again, Falcon could do nothing except curse as the Creature dashed him against a gas tank on the left, then the right. The tanks reverberated with a deep vibrating clang, followed by the sharp hiss of escaping gas. The Creature threw him to the gravel, then raised his foot. Falcon rolled out of the way an instant before the giant boot stomped a hole in the ground with a great _WHUD_.

The foul smell of sulfur, added to the gas for easy leak detection, filled the air. One of the tank seals had broken where his helmet had crashed into a seam.

Falcon reached for his pistol, but before he could draw it the Creature picked him up and wrapped him in a bear hug. Falcon headbutted the crest of his helmet into the Creature's kisser. The Creature grunted and squeezed harder, until breathing was a fond memory and Falcon's broken ribs grated, narrowing his universe down to a red singularity of suffering.

He hated to use the firearm in what had devolved into an honorable contest of strength. There was no choice left. Others were counting on him. He had to find Jody. Dracula must answer for his crimes. Goroh still had an unclaimed bounty on his head.

Falcon contorted and arched his torso just enough to put his hand over the holster. He'd been in bear hugs before and knew how to force movement. Even so, there could be no fine aiming. He would be doing well not to shoot off his own leg.

The holster was empty.

The hunchbacked Igor danced in the rain, cackling and gibbering his spiteful glee. A twin! How many more of the little shits were out there? To celebrate impending victory, Igor-2 shot the ground, sending up a shower of gravel. The Creature didn't care, just kept on crushing. It had now become impossible to breathe. A corona of darkness crept in over the edges of Falcon's field of vision.

Replacement Igor fired two more shots into the empty air, which did nothing to ignite the pooling cloud of dense, flammable gas.

His oxygen starved brain presented Captain Falcon with one last option. "Falcon Bite!" was what he wanted to shout had his lungs had not deflated. He closed teeth on the Creature's nose and tore with a starving wolf's desperate strength. The cartilage and skin came off with a wet pop. Falcon spat it out, ruing that he would remember the taste of it forever. The Creature grimaced but held firm, the ragged, slimy hole in his face alive with squirming grave worms.

Falcon reached inside for the Power, channeling it with a control granted by years of grueling discipline. Deep down, the force of the Falcon rose as the sun broke from the eastern horizon in times of old, when men could still gaze upon a clear blue sky. It consumed him, its fury matching his rage, eating his emotion and his life to fuel the razing. The Creature's jaundiced eyes opened wide at the sight of fire. He dropped Falcon, terrified gurgles bubbling in his throat.

So, the big man was afraid of fire. Igor's twin had stopped his mad dance to stare dumbfounded. Falcon kicked the gun out of his grasp, and snatched it midair. He gave them both his cockiest grin while disabling the heat-vision, then aimed for the leaking tank and pulled the trigger.

A flameproof racing suit was a F-Zero racer's best friend.

Igor Two coiled into a twist of greasy cinders. The Creature fled the inferno at a jerking half-run, groaning as if Earth itself were splitting apart. Flames ate greedily through clothes and patchwork skin, the monster burning more rapidly than any baseline human would. He reached the top of the rise and raised his arms in wordless plea to the sky. The Creature bellowed and groaned, sounding so helpless and sad a splinter of pity stabbed Falcon to his core.

The sky became brighter than daylight. One of the lightning collectors hovering far above cracked apart with a deafening explosion. Dozens of lightning bolts speared down and struck the Creature, coursing into that uneven frame, behaving as no electricity should. Serpents of plasma snaked and coruscated through the Creature like things alive until he no longer burned but shone. Arms still raised to the writhing sky, the Creature crooned.

The lightning disappeared as instantly as it arrived. Despite the adaptive optics in his visor, Falcon had a hard time seeing the black winged thing which dropped from a gap in the storm. Whatever it was, its wingspan was longer than the Falcon Flyer's. It swooped down and snatched up the Creature, and with the unlabored flapping of its leathery wings, bore him away up into the night.


	8. Can't Wait Until Night

Tired and beat half to hell, Falcon judged it time to hole up someplace safe and heal. Take time to think all this fresh craziness through. Easier to trace hidden connections between nonsensical events with a rested mind. Falcon didn't fancy chancing a return to his second safe house. Might be another ambush waiting there to receive a beatdown of their own. Goroh had kept his secrets well, but they hadn't saved him in the end.

And there was the hunchback's list. The implications looming behind its existence sat heavy on his skull. 'The Master' wanted racers. All those on the Grand Prix roster, or just certain ones? Wanted them for what? Falcon's first thought had been that Dracula's thugs dusted Goroh out of retribution for the raid on his castle. Now, the bandit king of Red Canyon was the latest of victim of Silver's "F-Zero Massacre." Kidnapped by a squad of illegal bio-constructs as part of a grander, mysterious scheme.

Falcon's remaining lead was the crazy, beautiful man who had invaded his bathtub. When the world went insane, who better to consult than the mad? He would pay a call on this Alucard cat, wring from him what he knew about this plot. Perhaps the lunatic had a nice couch to crash on.

First, these damn busted ribs needed attention. A matrix of pain blazed through his body. The fight had left his clothes bloodied and slathered with mud. Clinics or emergency rooms would only bring questions he didn't have good answers to, and throngs of reporters, and worse, fans. He'd be trapped for sure, leaving this Dracula free to move. He settled for hitting up a mom and pop pharmacy. His gloves scanned and paid for the goods as he picked them off the shelves, then blustered out the door before the register jockey could cortext his friends, "guess who just fking bought bandages from my store!"

The hour had grown late and the rain stayed heavy, which worked in his favor. Falcon chose a 24-hour diner with few customers. Looked like it had seem some action recently, with black plastic taped over a shattered window pane. He staggered inside, wrapped in a trench coat and a wide brimmed hat he stored in the Blue Falcon Urban for just such emergencies. Wearing a pilot's suit and his distinctive helmet Captain Falcon was a huge draw. A lowlife scuffling about in a lumpy coat, trying and failing to conceal a helmet under a too small hat—just another regular, suspicious weirdo and thus unworthy of notice in Mute City.

More than avoiding making a surprise celebrity appearance, he didn't want the myth of the invulnerable Captain Falcon tarnished. Never let 'em see you bleed. Bruises bloomed over the full length of his body. Busted lips, blackened eyes, and a swollen face completed the insult.

In the restroom sink he scrubbed off the grime of combat. Injected bone glue for the ribs. Washed out the open gashes, sprayed them down with Max Tomato f-aid spray, then taped them up with gauze as best he could. After swallowing pain managers and anti-inflammatories with cheap coffee and downing a greasy steak breakfast, he felt almost human. Almost human by Captain Falcon's standards meant run over, set afire, and stomped until extinguished, but functional.

Next: the location printed on Alucard's card.

When Falcon was sure no one tailed him at street and sky level, he switched on the Urban's camouflage. The sleek blue car vanished in a shimmering shroud of light, in seconds taking on the disguise of a rusting, bio-sludge burning heap painted turd brown with its rear lights smashed out. The camo was good for up to half the electromagnetic spectrum.

A turn at the intersection of Brookhaven and Ishtaria Avenue brought him to a quaint 2-story house done up in exposed red brick and decaying Neo-Georgian architecture. According to the card, this was it. _Genya Arikado Museum of Old World Curiosities_ read the sign above the entrance.

It was a run down neighborhood, its streets empty as most would be asleep or working graveyard shifts. A lone figure springing out from a surprisingly mobile crapwaggon to rush the museum's grubby front doors as if in desperate need to use the museum's restroom was unlikely to bestir the locals' curiosity if any were watching.

Inside a stale smelling foyer, Falcon bought a ticket of admission from the roboteller. The main hall spread before him, enticing with its dusty treasures. Gloomy arches of pale stone lorded over the exhibits. Weak lighting struck a milky gleam from smudged crystal display cases. Not just the curios in their glass boxes that were old. The décor, including dust-laden red velvet curtains and plaster pillars molded into classical patterns, revealed a taste in interior decorating several centuries out of date.

Falcon took a shine to it immediately. The honesty of the museum to wear its decrepitude with such pride was endearing.

For a time he wandered, taking in such old world artifacts like dial phones and CRT computer monitors and arcade game cabinets and cassette tapes and typewriters, and books! Actual books printed on paper, the cardboard and glue curling yet still functionally intact. Another wing housed petrol burning cars, the racing machines of yore with their quaint piston engines, all well preserved except for the rotting rubber tires. Further on, in halls more dim and somber yet, were suits of armor and billhook poleaxes and brass knuckles all sullen and dangerous and gleaming dull under sodium-vapor lamps. Over the walls draped mandalas displaying in matrices the many incarnations of god.

The museum was cold, so it was easy to spot the clouding breath of someone hiding behind a nearby tapestry, which showed knights in armor charging each other on a field of battle.

Falcon glared. "Lily blossom, that you?"

No response. The fogging exhalations stopped.

"I'm here to see your boss."

No movement, no sound. Out of patience, Falcon swept aside the tapestry. Behind it opened a sparsely lit stairwell spiraling down. Cool, clammy air drifted up from underground. No sign of whoever had been lurking behind the tapestry, breathing heavily seconds earlier.

At stair's end was an antique elevator, its car secured by an accordion grill. It took him rattling down into a concrete tube service tunnel, whose winding course led to a wooden door wedged firmly into a frame of mortared stone.

Falcon knocked and the door opened.

"Wine?" Alucard asked. He looked the same as before. Pallid, serious, and this time dressed down in black slacks and vest, with a white shirt and burgundy red tie.

The special agent's gaze was appraising. A slight lift of the eyebrows. "My condolences. Your evening has evidently been a trying one." He stepped aside and waved Falcon into his lair.

Falcon snatched the fluted glass from the pale hand and drank it all in one go. Sweet with a note of cloves. "Keep it coming." Alucard refilled the glass and Falcon emptied it. Properly fortified, Falcon paid mind to his surroundings.

Beautiful yet functional weapons, clean and polished, rested on wall brackets. Curtains draped rich reds and browns over the ugly cobbled stonework. Lilting tracks of string orchestra suites played on an antique CD player. Alucard's apartment was four modest rooms, perhaps a few more cubic feet of space more than Falcon's smallest garage. The main room: a book-walled study; a kitchenette; and a dining space floored with yellow bamboo mats. In the next room over, tables covered in expensive science lab glassware complete with occupied specimen jars and beakers crusted with rings of evaporated fluids; off to the side a basin of soil beneath ultraviolet lamps where herbs and other useful weeds grew alongside a cluster of luminous white flowers. In the third chamber, a hardwood floor, empty. It had the feel of a dojo, where Alucard took practice swings with his weapons collection. In the last, there was no bed, only a man-sized black oak coffin behind a couch. Mounted on one wall was a vacuum sealed display case, holding inside it a trio of tattered stuffed animals—cat, turtle, and dragon that looked to be very old and preserved with care. Alucard lived in a miniature version of the museum upstairs, except clean and cozy.

"Nice place you have here." Falcon began to peel out of his disguise. Toxic-vapor sensor reports scrolled over the helmet visor. The wine had been clean of toxins and controlling substances, aside from alcohol. No countermeasures deployed. A good start. There was little basis for trust between them—he barely knew the man and they had not parted under the most clement of circumstances.

"Thank you. After serving as my primary residence for the last one-hundred years, I like to think it reflects something of my personality."

Falcon looked him over again, not bothering to hide his scrutiny this time. He checked for the telltale signs of de-aging surgery. Found none. The skin between the fingers, around the eyes, all as fresh and smooth as the rest. Alucard could've climbed out of a spawning vat months ago, yet he was smart and strong as a gifted man of twenty. Concealing and maintaining a hideout like this required no few resources and some clandestine know-how. Falcon struggled to sort the facts into a truth that made sense. Only one option stood out from the confusion.

"You're not human."

"Half true. Thanks to my mother. My father often laments that I am wholly human."

"But your father…" Falcon snapped his fingers. "Robot. Meat sleeve. Your mother contributed the DNA, your father the brain. Sapient A.I. in a vat grown body, right?"

Alucard let out a soft, bitter laugh. "No. My father and I, we are both vampires, cursed and damned. I am over a thousand years old, my father far older still. I know you do not credit it, but this is just one of many impossible things you'll have to accept if you wish to campaign at my side against the forces of darkness."

Falcon decided to pretend, for the moment, he knew what a vampire was. "I haven't said anything about taking your side in anything. It's information I'm after."

Alucard cocked an eyebrow. "The last time we met you refused what I had to offer. What prompted the change of heart?"

Falcon did not crowd Alucard. In no mood, yet, to be rude. He also remembered the slim man's unusual strength. Not that he couldn't take him in a rematch, but he'd rather not rebreak those ribs.

"Dracula's made it personal. He's abducting people connected with F-Zero." Alucard nodded. "Couple days ago, he took my friend. Jody Summer. You should recognize that name."

"I do. Though we've never been introduced, every agent in my department is familiar with at least some of her work."

"Right. So yesterday, I receive this from her, by way of a mutual friend." Falcon gave Alucard the surveillance log he'd received from Silver. "Following up on that lead brought me to this." He then pulled from a belt pouch the grip of a katana, a stub of fractured blade sticking up from a gold coin hand guard. After Dracula's goons had flown away, he returned to the office in search of more clues and found the sword handle in shadow beside a crate. He handed it to the special agent, watching that gorgeous face closely for a reaction. He scrutinized in vain, for Alucard gave nothing away.

Captain Falcon had seen and heard a lot of unusual things in the last 24-hour cycle, but what Alucard said next genuinely surprised him. "Samurai Goroh. You went to check on him, and found him vanished with only this memento left behind."

"Yeah. I found his place busted up, no trace of a body. I think Dracula took him alive."

"Likely. Dracula has uses for the living as well as the dead. And now I am your last resort in illuminating this mystery."

Jaw muscles clamped. Falcon forced himself to relax. "What's your connection to Goroh? And don't tell me no tall tales. I'll know if you're lying."

"I approached Goroh after you refused to help. This was before the so-called F-Zero Massacre began. I commissioned him to steal a possession of Dracula's, an item of strategic importance."

"A bad deal for you. Goroh tends to steal from his partners as much as he does from his victims."

"A worse deal for Goroh, in this case." Alucard rattled the plastic pages of the report. "He survived the attempt. That's more than I expected."

"Another thing." With a finger Falcon circled his discolored face. "Tell me. Your daddy hire his muscle from the far corners of the gene pool? Does he fancy attack dogs the size of small houses?"

"His minions run a gamut as varied and comprehensive as the Encyclopedia Galactica. Refugees from the dark places of the world man has forgotten. Or destroyed. I deduce that you had the pleasure of encountering a delegation from that diaspora of abominations."

"You speculate correctly, pal."

Falcon hung up his hat and coat and made himself comfortable on a prim gray davenport. "I'm an F-Zero vet and a bounty hunter. I've lived this long by questioning everything." He held out his glass for a refill and received it. "I would've known if you doped this drink, for example. What I'd like to know is, how do I know you're not making it all up? The age, your day job as Federation special agent, the whole vampire thing. Or that you're not on Dracula's side?"

The 'vampire' reclined into a high-backed chair, swirling the dark wine in his glass. He put his feet up on a footstool, its legs four wolves carved from a gray wood, red and yellow gems for eyes. Falcon wondered if Alucard knew the effect he was having on him, flaunting those long, shapely gams. He wanted to run this hands down those toned drumsticks.

Gaze distant, Alucard asked in a flat voice, "Does any of that matter, captain? You're not some grubby, stream show private detective, shambling down steaming alleyways in a cloud of alcohol vapor. You're _the_ Falcon. You crave the romance of adventure. You live for the good fight. You need more than the mundane, work-a-day world could ever provide you, and you seek it hunting the world's most dangerous game. In your Blue Falcon you pursue splendor and wonder at the very edge of speed itself, burning atoms to light chasing down that ever vanishing, yet never vanished gap between What Has Happened and What Happens Next. Falcon, tearing up the track until all the world blurs to abstraction and you flirt with the escape velocity of space-time itself. You will join me in this fight, because if you instead stay home to rehearse Mute City track for the billionth time, you will never live down the regret of what might have been if you had answered adventure's call."

Alucard took a long sip. For a moment, the wine lingered on his too pale lips, staining them like blood on gauze.

It stung, having his own truth fed back to him. Like being the beetle identified and pinned into the collector's case. "You really think you have me figured out, huh?" Falcon grinned into his wine. "You don't know the first thing about me. All you're spouting is the legend. An image manufactured for sale."

"Oh, I'm sure I don't know a hundredth of your history." Alucard leaned forward, hooded eyes glinting like the jeweled stares of the carved wolves. "But I know heroes, and you are one. A hero born, the greatest of this age. Reading even a fraction of your file was enough to know this for absolute truth. I didn't live this long, beating the devil back into his cage ever century or so, by choosing bad partners in the war against the night." He held out a long-fingered hand. Alucard possessed beautiful thumbs, Falcon noticed. "Join me?"

Without hesitation, he reached across and squeezed Alucard's hand, giving it the gentlest of shakes. "As long as you're honest with me, I won't punch you into vapor."

"Agreed."

Alucard rose and glided to the lab where he unlocked a cabinet drawer. From it he produced a round bottle of blue liquid, which he handed to Falcon. "Drink this. It treats wounds superficial and deep." Falcon took the bottle, popped the cork. The contents smelled strange. Closest comparison was spearmint aftershave.

He glared at Alucard. "The hell's this?"

Alucard waved a hand at the lab and herb garden. "It's an old family recipe. You won't find its like anywhere else."

Never one to turn down an exotic drink, Falcon drained the bottle in two swigs. The potion tasted worse than it smelled, but left a pleasant minty aftertaste. It warmed the throat and stomach, and soon the weariness of a night spent locked in mortal combat drained from his body. The tears in his skin itched terribly, as they should when close to fully healed. The sensors in his clothes had no idea what to make of the brew, returning null results.

Alucard settled on the small couch beside him. There was no warmth in his proximity. Just a kind of gravity that tempted Falcon closer and teased prickling gooseflesh from his skin.

"Why's he going after pilots?" Falcon asked. "His hirelings had a list. An actual, printed out list! My name was on it."

"Do you have it?"

"It was annihilated before I got a look at it. I want to know what his objective is."

"My father has a newfound obsession with F-Zero which puzzles me as well. Humanity's various sports and competitions never interested him before. I've been unable to ascertain what place racing has in his schemes, but I can guess at his motives. Dracula takes victims alive for only one purpose. He means to sire them into a new, accursed existence." Falcon stared blankly at him. Alucard sighed. "He will turn them into vampires. It may be he desires new lieutenants, with knowledge or skills necessary to navigate this new world. Or perhaps he requires companionship."

He ain't the only one, Falcon thought while scoping out Alucard's crotch. What might be different from human down there? It was handy having triangle eye symbols projected onto the visor. While the representations maintained eye contact, the real thing could point themselves elsewhere.

"Okay, you keep talking about vampires. What the hell are those?"

Alucard blinked. "It would take too long to explain everything. Best to start with a dissertation on the origin of vampirism. I will strive to keep it brief. To modern ears, a description of the state of undeath will sound like the result of a viral or fungal infection. But in truth, it is a curse placed upon…"

A side effect of the potion made itself known. Falcon grew an epic hard on. Concentration became difficult.

"It was then, in 1691 A.D. that Simon brought the war to Dracula. The Belmont family whip, as previously mentioned…"

Space in his pants became tight. The race suit fabric strained against the long bulge. He resisted the urge to reach down between his legs and readjust. Keep it cool, keep it casual. You only just met the man-vamp. Dirty fantasies and fond memories of heated moments spent in cramped bathroom stalls, teeth gritted and pants down, crowded into his mind's eye.

"Ironically, over the next three centuries there is little to tell. I have worked to suppress the reincarnation of Dracula and enable his would-be avatars to live a normal life. It is interesting that…"

Since Alucard had so far deigned not to notice the hyper-diamond-hard prick raging against its prison for release, he reached down as if to scratch a loin and shifted it around until it was more comfortable. Nope, mission failed. Still jammed in an awkward angle. Falcon wished this stupid, sexy fool would stop prattling and help him relieve the pressure. Masturbation only carried you so far. A human body needed the sensual shock of foreign contact to take things to the next level. It looked like Alucard was finishing up. Best pretend as if he'd been paying attention.

"I myself am half-vampire by birth. It is my gift and my curse that, undying, I am the one best equipped to wage an eternal crusade against my mad father's campaign of extermination. Any questions?"

"Vamps suck blood, stalk the night, and corrupt the souls of the innocent, whatever that means. Got it. But who's this Dracula clown again? Other than being your old man."

Alucard pinched the bridge of his nose and took in a deep breath. "The Lord of Darkness, who has awakened once more to take possession of the earth and all who dwell upon it. Already his apostate agents issue forth into the streets to threaten the lives of the citizens you would protect. Is that summary comprehensible?"

"Sure. I've run into guys like that before, so this won't be my first time around the track. But I can tell by the things you're not saying, that someone must've done you and your pops some serious dirt way back when. What was it, man? What started this all?"

The poise of Alucard faltered by the slimmest of margins. He seemed unsure what to do with his lovely hands. "Dracula lost the only woman he ever loved to the petty hatred of humanity. When you live as long as we, you see the spiteful, twisted monkey hiding behind the face of every man, woman, and child. It's not a matter of if the mask will slip, but when."

"And this woman lost was your mother."

"I'll not deny it." Alucard was no longer looking at him or anything else in the room. Like an old man returning once again to the same old sepia toned memories which always absorbed him. Except Alucard was eternally young and virile, as long as you didn't gaze too long into those dark eyes. An ancient mind in a young body. Could be awkward. So how did he feel about it? Falcon dipped down to his groin again. Yep, still at full attention. The might of the Falcon was undaunted in the presence of even profound grief.

"She was a pharmacist and physician, centuries ahead of her time. They mistook the efficacy of her craft as a sign that she consorted with the devil. A year after they burned her at the stake, Dracula came among them." He closed his eyes. "Even the children…"

Falcon took Alucard's hand between his own two and gave it a firm squeeze. "You fight to save mankind even after all they've done to you. You're my kind of man."

"Thank you," Alucard said, sounding somewhat strangled. He tugged his hand free.

"How do we free everyone your dad's abducted?"

"They'll be with him in his fortress, Castlevania. That is where we must confront the Lord of the Night. I'll show you the battle plan."

Alucard rolled out a bleeding edge holodisplay on a squeaky antique cart and switched it on. A 3D cut-away diagram of the castle rendered in light cast a blue glow over the room.

"It's a hell of a lair. First noticed it just after bringing Arbin in," said Falcon.

"Yes. Castlevania is difficult to ignore. The structure itself is alive and changes both its layout and its interiors through the centuries based on its own unknowable whims. This basic representation will give you a rough idea of what to expect. We'll begin—here." Alucard tapped the front entrance drawbridge with an extendable pointer. "Once we penetrate the outer defenses—"

"Penetrate, yes."

"We'll take our swords in hand and explore hidden paths through the labyrinthine interior."

"I got ya."

Alucard's pointer rose higher on the abstract map of rectangles and squares. "Once we've straddled the highest point, we will force our way inside the innermost sanctum. This proud tower is usually where Dracula awaits his challengers. He will be aroused to our presence the moment we step foot on the grounds. I'll take things from there as you cover my back."

"Yes!"

Alucard snapped him an odd look at the outburst. "Does the plan meet your approval?"

Falcon scratched his chin. "It's simple and direct. Fits my style. But I have a better idea for where we can start, and I think you'll like it."

Alucard walked into his bed(coffin?)room and returned with sword and shield. His clothes had magically dressed up in an instant to ruffled collars, a great coat and cape. A belt slung across his delicious waist, pouches heavy with vials of his homebrew medicine. "Then we leave at once. With any luck we will catch Dracula when he is weakest, at the first light of dawn."

"Hold on. I gotta use your restroom first."

* * *

With all the gear packed and the armor donned, they made the one hour orbital express to Port Town. Alucard was treated to a sight millions of Falcon fans across the galaxy would donate tissue to see—Captain Falcon's cavernous hangar, beneath his secret island stronghold. Machines for air, land, sea, and space gleamed under the sun yellow lights. Each custom made, one-of-a-kind, powerful.

They fueled up two of the star pieces of the collection. First, the Falcon Flyer, Falcon's fleetest air-to-space craft. Beside it purred the Blue Falcon Assail, a mini-tank Falcon had built for the rare times when securing a bounty required storming a hardened position.

"Hey, I've been thinking. How does your father feel about all the aliens walking around? Does his unholy war extend to them as well?" Falcon asked. Alucard had been pensive the whole flight over. Falcon wanted to chat the vampire up, get him to open up a little. Alucard had been invading his mental real estate more and more since they'd left the museum.

Alucard hesitated before answering. "I… hadn't given the issue any consideration. However, with my father, it is best to expect the worst."

It must be hard on him, having an all out villain for a father, Falcon thought. He had admired his own father. Falcon attempted to commiserate, but what came out instead was: "That must be hard on him, to have a son expecting him to be the bad guy all the time." Immediately he felt out of line for saying it. When the Falcon laid down his word, he picked it back up for no man. This once, he felt a correction was needed. "He's done plenty to deserve it though."

Alucard pretended not to hear him. "I'm not sure I like this plan."

Relieved at the change of subject, Captain Falcon keyed in the Falcon Flyer's ignition sequence. "This will work because he won't see it coming. I don't care how good Dracula's air defenses are, this is my baby." He patted the glossy hull, covered in self-healing wax. "She'll cut through anything. Now let's get strapped in."

Falcon drove the Blue Falcon Assail up the loading ramp, into the Flyer's cargo bay. Alucard carried his tools and held a flashlight while Falcon opened up the tank's control panels and ran cables from the Flyer's cockpit. While sitting inside the Assail, they would be able to remote access the spacecraft's interface, piloting the Falcon Flyer without leaving the land craft. When all connections pinged back OK and all systems came up green, Falcon turned to Alucard and gestured to the sole seat inside the Assail.

"Time to go. You want to be on top or bottom?"

Sure, he could have refit the Blue Falcon Assail to seat two, but there was no time. The tank's cockpit had just enough space for two to share the same seat. If they didn't mind getting… intimate.

"I'll just… I will take the top seat. As it were." The vampire's speech sounded thick with discomfort. Falcon watched for a blush, but no extra color entered those white cheeks.

Falcon hopped in, then patted his lap. "Jump to it. No need to be shy." Alucard reluctantly folded himself, neat as a linen dinner napkin, into the confined space and secured the safety belts over them both. The vampire's spare frame fit amazingly well against his own body. Even through layers of clothing and armor separated them, Falcon found the sensation of that trim ass wedged into his crotch especially choice. Eerily enough, there was no bodily warmth leaking through. He tried his best not to get aroused. Remembering Alucard naked in that bathtub, that fine package expanded in the warm water. It was a challenge.

Decent thing to do was offer the gent other accommodations before his own junk underwent expansion. "Hey, if this is packed too tight for you, I can take another day to rig something more spacious."

Alucard kept his face lowered, eyes directed elsewhere. "Let's just get this over with," he muttered.

"Right." The external feeds normally projected onto the Flyer's displays now overlay the Assail's, giving them the view from outside. Falcon gripped the throttle lever and taxied the Flyer towards the launch ramp doors, which split at the last instant. The Flyer arrowed up a chute of night blue ocean water contained by force fields. In an instant they soared with the stars in a cloudless sky. Through it all, Falcon hadn't felt his seat mate tense or flinch. Yes, this one might be a keeper.

Less than a half-hour later, they reached Mute City. Just under three hours before sunrise. Pilot A.I. flew until they were five minutes out from Castlevania, when Falcon resumed control of the Falcon Flyer. The vast circuit board grid of the gigapolis and its constant storm filled the view, the light pollution reflected as a cyan glow in the clouds above.

Falcon shut the Flyer engines off. The bronze beak of the spacecraft dipped towards the earth. He turned on the tank's audio feeds. Listened to the air, whose whisper through the Flyer hull gradually rose to a howl. The Falcon was listening to the wisdom of the wind.

He made a few minute adjustments to the steering and relaxed his body. "Just so."

"Was this the plan? To crash? You hadn't mentioned this part." No fear hid behind Alucard's sass. His muscles went lax, following Falcon's example. The cityscape of neat lines and squares lurched closer, taking on a third dimension. Flat geometric shapes reared into sky scrapers, floating dots resolving into fliers and weather controllers, narrow strips blooming into wide super expressway overpasses seething with traffic.

And there was Castlevania, a grim fractal forking of stone and iron jutting up above the low skyline of the Old Quadrant. Falcon gunned the engines back to life and leveled out their plummet. The seat wrapped around them, cushioning, kneading arteries as the inertia crushed them down. If there had been any surface-to-air targeting A.I.s in use they would've had a hell of a time getting a lock on the Flyer performing such a neck snapping dive.

The screech of metal against metal set Falcon's teeth on edge. Damn, what kinda computer could've intercepted them this fast?

"I was afraid of this," said Alucard.

Seeing nothing forward, Falcon switched feed to the dorsal cameras. A great winged demon raked the Flyer's top side with its talons, while another monster resembling a featherless bird with arms jabbed the Flyer's roof with a giant spear. Sparks spiraled off the hull. Damage warnings blared red over the HUD.

"Old acquaintances of yours?"

"Slogra and Gaibon. They will not be our only problem. Check the forward cameras."

Falcon switched the view, and frowned. Castlevania filled the display, the highest tower angled at the ship like a lance in the grip of an on-charging knight. A black cloud boiled up from the parapets, whirling into an interception course. He zoomed in. It wasn't a cloud at all, but a swarm of bats. Hundreds of thousands of them.

"They're gonna clog the engines."

"We must pull up," said Alucard.

"No. The way I look at it, the harder we plow through them, the better. Falcon Flyer, full thruster output. Engage."

The ship responded to his vocal command. The hum of its engines increased. Thousands of bats puréeing against the Flyer's hull sounded like nothing less than an overfilled garbage disposal mulching away in a heavy rainstorm.

Castlevania's bleak ramparts rushed up to meet them.

"We're going to crash." To Alucard's credit he sounded stoic about it.

"Yeah." He wrapped his arms around Alucard and gripped the steering wheel. "Stay loose. This'll get bumpy."

The proximity alarm chimed in. Per the pre-programmed instructions, the Falcon Flyer fired its retro boosters and swerved into a brutal 180 degree turn. At the last second, the rear bay doors snapped open, flinging the Blue Falcon Assail like a sling stone at the fortress roofs, the tank clocking well over 2000 km/h.

The speed would have paralyzed an ordinary man. Pinned him to his seat, teeth gritted over a scream too heavy to shout from his lungs as he hurtled to a messy doom.

But not Captain Falcon. Speed was his ambrosia, his bread, his air. Velocity the warmth of sunlight on his face. Falcon savored his biggest fix since the last Grand Prix. As his spine arched in ecstasy, Alucard contorted to match him, pushing his firm ass further into Falcon's lap, silver hair tickling his lips like gray silk. For an all too brief moment they came together as a single hunter. One purpose. One spirit.

Ascended into bliss, Falcon maintained a firm grip on the controls. Firing the g-diffusers, he steered the Assail midair to the only viable landing zone, a strip of slate shingles scaling over a nearby keep roof which was low canted enough to be the next best thing to flat. The Assail touched down, its levitation arrays straining to keep a cushion of empty space between the "road" and the chassis. The tank's belly scraped tiles, kicking up a wake of high flying roofing bits. Falcon struggled to keep them from fishtailing off the keep.

The g-diffusers evened out the hover level, yet they couldn't bleed off most of their momentum in so short a time. The Assail careened out of control through a landscape of gothic architecture. Gables and flying buttresses and spires flashed by. Gargoyles turned their weathered heads to watch the bolt of blue lightning pass. Falcon thought he saw the face of a clock tower blur by on right.

Rotund, green-gray bats smacked the hull with deafening fleshy impacts, coating over the camera shields with spatters of green ichor.

"Medusa heads," said Alucard. "How it warms me to see them run down like the pests they are."

Falcon swore by every type of genital with which he was familiar (which were many) and punched buttons, desperate to get the gunk off the forward cameras before they themselves splattered against an uncompromising surface. Washing fluids mixed with electric-magnetic grit jet sprayed the crystal covers for the camera ports, blasting away the goo.

View cleared, they saw the end of the roof approaching fast. He swerved, slinging more tiles into the stratosphere. They avoided diving off of the keep and instead smashed into the side of a tower Falcon swore hadn't been there a moment before. The masonry caved, the tank held together.

Punched through into the tower interior, the Assail pinballed from wall to wall, its armored hide brushing aside stone stairs and rusted iron railings. Emergency impact smartfoam gushed into the cockpit.

Through the dust the cameras were still able to treat the passengers to the sight of the tower's floor falling upwards to crush them flat. Before the protective pink foam cloud locked up his arms and closed off his sight, Falcon fired the high-explosive missiles formulated to smash apart blockades.

And then he could see nothing, Alucard frozen against him, each helpless in the dark as if buried alive. Together they listened to the rumble of explosions, the brittle cracking of collapsing stone, and the terrible shriek of shredding carbon-steel alloy.

Seeing no other option for the time being, Falcon took a nap.


	9. Interlude II: Feel Our Pain

Don Genie descended on F-Zero Execution Project HQ, backed by an entire battalion of his personal guard. On most such occasions a platoon or two would suffice. Tonight was special. In poring over the necessary research, it was his judgment that this business supper rated a full deployment. Don trusted few things like he trusted his powers of judgment.

Would there be trouble? With these many guns at his call the question became moot. Handpicked and vetted himself from the rosters of premier private military firms, his guards were discrete professionals. Savage when necessary. No order too grimy or harrowing they wouldn't obey to the letter. And if all went well tonight, no one would notice they were there, aside from the paltry security teams of lesser plutocrats, who would look on with sneers of distaste on their lips and the light of frightened envy in their eyes.

Don entered the sprawling complex where the brains behind F-Zero held court. By the eyes of a casual observer, Don Genie entered alone.

The F-Zero Execution Project and its ruling committee lorded over the galaxy-spanning universe of F-Zero from a towering, lopsided confection of colored crystal and chrome. The complex resembled, in abstract, a race course loop. On the south end, a cafe occupied a goodly chunk of the top floor, commanding a terrific view of the Kanki Ishida River. The King's Cup was where committee chairs rubbed tentacles with the wealthy and powerful, swapped anecdotes and trading gossip over luxuriant meals where appetizers alone cost more than most people's yearly income. Often, it was not inside the palatial meeting rooms but rather in the Cup, over plates of Etecoon hearts and unicorn pâté, that the real deals in F-Zero were made.

The menu was trash, the decor banal beyond all human conception. Less said of the diners one was likely to encounter here the better. Don Genie loathed to soil his shoe soles in such a greasy spoon dive, fit only for millionaires. But when it came to the disposition of all things F-Zero, taking a seat at the table required a reservation at The King's Cup. At least the booze list was up to snuff.

Everyone he passed by he ignored. The wealthy are defined by their rivalries with their peers. They thrive by their networks. But Don had surpassed them, ascended to a level of wealth beyond any need to pretend he cared what anyone thought of him. Enemies were a minor expense that sometimes provided light entertainment. Walking by outstretched hands and forced smiles, the well oiled machine of his mind ran idle calculations. Speaking to this media mogul would waste seventy million credits. A brief chat with this energen crystal baron would throw away three hundred million. The number of sapient beings in Federation space whose time was more valuable than Don Genie's was a single digit sum.

At last, he stood before the field of battle. Humans, instead of the usual servile androids, pulled open the golden doors to the dining hall. The doormen bowed their foreheads to the carpet. "Welcome to the King's Cup, Mr. Genie."

Strange. The substitution of living employees for robots was a break from tradition, but not unheard of. Perhaps the committee had committed to a round of performative charity by hiring human riffraff. Give them a little pay and food before sending them back to the slums. With all the recent carnage surrounding the sport, F-Zero administration would be thirsty for some positive optics.

Passing the threshold, Don scowled, noting these doormen were indeed some scruffy specimens. Hair plastered to scalps as if they'd just climbed out of bed. Skin speckled and gray and probably not properly washed. He breathed deep, grateful for the subtly perfumed air. Endure the filth for an hour, old bean. Seek repayment for these slights after the deal was sealed. At least these peons were secure, his men had made certain of that before he finished the elevator ride to the top floor. And while the King's Cup managers were indeed fools, none were so dense as to allow these vermin into the kitchens.

Under a crystal dome spread the dining area, and there were many tables. Don clicked his tongue with satisfaction. Light crowd, a few occupied tables off to the side, by the windows. Rumor of his coming had spread just as he wished it to, and persuaded the gross nobility of capital to seek other venues this night for their dick measuring contests.

His reserved table was centrally placed. At it sat a solitary figure. A giant of a man, pale of skin and dark of dress, watching Don approach with red eyes. Though Don had sent no invitations and made no public announcements, he knew Dracula would be waiting here, and lo, his dinner date had not stood him up. Dracula would not rate the potential Don saw in him if he needed something so base as a formal invite to know when and where he must appear.

For the first time since Black Shadow fell, here might finally be a partner, or at least rival, worthy of spending his precious time. Don suppressed a smile.

No need to dissemble, then. "So, you're not entirely a frivolous individual," said Don. "Let us order refreshments and we'll get right down to it." He settled into the chair, which amoeba-like expanded and reformed to cradle Don's magnificent carriage to the upmost standards of comfort and posture support. A corresponding cavity appeared tabletop as the edge receded to accommodate the globe of his gut. Without looking away from the vampire across the table, he gestured to the wait staff to approach.

"A good evening to you too, Don Genie. That you're confident I would approach you this night I can readily credit." Dracula spoke in a deep, rich voice, sounding always on the edge of a growl, yet cool as subterranean waters. "But surely you don't already know what topics I wish to discuss?"

Don frowned. What a stupid thing to suppose. Perhaps he'd overestimated this opponent. "Business. What else is there?"

Unruffled, Dracula kept on, "For you, there is nothing else but business. What I referred to was the other obvious matter staring us both in the face. A shrewd opportunist such as yourself will have by now gleaned something of my true nature—"

"Vampire," Don stated flatly. "Nearly two thousand years old. You resurrect once a century, sometimes more frequently when summoned, less often when prevented. I have extensive library resources in an age when most people don't even know what a library is. I have books and documents in my private collection so rare all others who once knew of their existence have since perished."

A dark chuckle. Dracula stood to take a shallow bow. "Bravo. Then we arrive at the most awkward question." He held out hand, palm up, taloned with nails as curved and pointed as his fangs. "Why step so readily into my web, my not so little fly?"

Wait staff bustled about the table. They made the barest whisper of sound, careful to intrude no further than peripheral vision. A wine list floated into view. Don flicked his finger at a couple of selections. He muttered an order for the full spread. "The very best of everything. If it's anything less than pure excellence, I'll know. And you will come to know there's worse things than unemployment."

The servers faded away like water droplets on hot pavement. For a single breath, he caught a whiff of something… spoiled. Faint, the scent gone before he could trace and identify. Wonderful. Just as he'd supposed, these yokels did not bathe. Pockets crammed with stolen food. You could expect no better of these types. After concluding this meeting he would investigate the kitchens, catch the cooks by surprise. If their hides were likewise filthy, their hands unwashed, they would lose them.

Don resumed eye contact with Dracula.

"Where were we? Ah yes, a crack at my weight and provender for you. But you chose the wrong analogy. You are a tiger in a cage, while I am the poacher still deciding whether I want a new pet or a hide. Did you suppose this was neutral ground?"

Don watched the vampire close. After the insult thrown in his face, how would he respond? A dozen targeting lasers were painting his vitals at that instant and there were other safeguards set in place as well. Changing the filters on his eye augmentations would allow him to see the lasers, but Don trusted his men to do their job.

Dracula smiled. He did not huff or glare or make the fatal mistake of reaching out too far with those long nails of his. _Smiled_. Perhaps he had not overestimated this old monster after all.

"I did not expect you to play this fair, if that's what you mean."

Don nearly spat. Fair. No one grew rich keeping things fair. "Fair's a concept I refuse to acknowledge as real."

"I've never been a big believer myself."

The wine arrived. Dracula accepted a glass, Don waved off the bottle. He would drink once the hard work was done.

"Leave aside the similes and poetry. Let us speak each other plain. I'm not in the vulnerable position you think I am," said Dracula.

"What position do you think you're in? You may be older than memory, but you're a newborn in my world, vampire."

Dracula swirled the wine, took a long sip. Dabbed his mouth. Fully natural, his elan not the least bit feigned. Much as he hated to admit it, Don felt the slightest rustle of perturbation. He was beginning to think he didn't need this freak. Beginning to think caution outweighed lost profit. Steady, man. He had this in hand, because Don Genie never lost his grip on anything.

"I'm in position to take over F-Zero. Top to bottom. That's what I came here tonight to see you about," said Dracula. "You already own a sizable share of the committee. After placing third in the last Grand Prix, and the success of your 'shake and bake' mining colonies, you're now poised to assume control of F-Zero. It will be your greatest financial commitment to date. Management of the sport has been shaky of late, with talks of further Grand Prix being delayed indefinitely until 'cash flow' issues are ironed out, which we both know they may well never be. If the committee doesn't play along, you plan to ally with the anti-F-Zero faction, use their outrage, Arbin's sad crimes, and my slaughter at the qualifiers to put political pressure on the F-Zero Execution Project. You have more than enough pull with the feds to make life unpleasant for the chairs. It is a daring move. They'll fold, conceding victory to you. All good so far?"

Don nodded. No point in denying it.

"You see," Dracula continued, "I have a considerable library of my own. I also know you will make a terrible boss. You have all the unfeeling brutality and keen organizational skills to keep the whole machine purring onwards, but no imagination. I want F-Zero, your current share included. I wish to be the sport's savior. If you prove trustworthy, you may act as my lieutenant in this endeavor."

A baser man would've laughed. Don could only look down at the table cloth, picking off a shred of lint. So. The great myth was nothing more than a conniving thug, used to bullying his way to victory. It was all beyond gauche. Disappointment, affront, amusement, and a dozen other sensations he couldn't pick out from the mix assailed Don. What was worse, Dracula knew more about his affairs than anyone alive ought to. But not everything, if he thought the colonies had been a complete success.

''Unacceptable. You shame us both with this offer."

Dracula drained his glass, then over its crystal rim stared Don down with a predator's gaze. A deep, red hunger surfaced. Until this moment Dracula had looked and sounded and moved like a human. An unusually large and graceful one, but human. Don realized he'd committed the gravest of sins by seeing only what he expected to. He expected human and his brain had in all innocent stupidity traded efficiency for accuracy. Dracula was not human. That face had never looked human. It was some alien imitation of humanity, or a mockery of it. And under the hanging skin of the mask, the true face looked out, hideous beyond belief and alive with depraved lusts.

"Unacceptable?" whispered Dracula. "But this is the same bargain you once struck with Black Shadow."

The gall of this upstart, to throw an expensively buried secret in his face! Don opened his mouth to deny the truth when a horrible sound brought him up short.

A shriek of strings. Don spun half around, the amorphous chair remolding itself to accommodate the shift. On a raised platform where a pianist played during brunch, a band of speckled hicks had begun to saw away on vintage string instruments, with one hammering away on an electric organ. The musicians and their instruments, including the heavy organ, had not been there a minute ago. Unpleasant in the ears, the music was slow and moaning, a down tempo folk ballad. Or perhaps a funeral march.

A power move, then. Fine. Let Dracula think he'd scored a point with this theater. It was time to drop the hammer.

"Well, I've heard your offer, such as it is. Now you will listen to mine."

Dracula nodded, as if giving him leave to speak. Infuriating! Don decided Dracula would not survive the night. He would turn the remains over to his scientists, and then lead a daylight raid on Castlevania. They would capture the nascent colony of vampires and put the materials to work immediately.

"As you've learned, I've expanded into colonizing worlds with significant deposits of resources. Transporting large numbers of people to the farthest reaches of the galaxy takes time and presents many hazards to the colonists' health. Reaching the dwarf galaxies orbiting off the galactic plane takes longer still. The nearest galaxies are nearly beyond all practical reach. But if those colonists could have their DNA infused with vampire genes…"

Dracula leaned forward, eyes glinting. "They would be able to enter torpor. To sleep without sustenance or even air for centuries, until it was time to awaken at their far flung destination. You would be the first human to colonize another galaxy."

''Yes. Exactly. Cooperate, and perhaps I can take you on as a protege in wrangling the F-Zero circus."

Dracula poured himself another glass of wine. "And here I thought you were after immortality. That's what most mortals beg me for, when it's not mastery of the powers of darkness."

"Darkness you can keep. Eternal life is a goal of mine, however. Upon signing, you will submit a few, for lack of a better term, living vampire specimens to my labs for analysis." And your own damn corpse, idiot. "You can trust me to keep any secrets I glean from their genetics exclusively to myself."

"You wouldn't want any competition," said Dracula. The look he gave him might've been a knowing one, but it was hard to tell. The inhuman thing staring out of the mask had become too distracting, too strange for Don to read.

"Where is that damn food," he muttered. "First course should be here by now." The band wailed on, the music at a mercifully lower register, but also more brooding.

"I'm sure it'll be along in the next minute. What fascinates me is your colonists. I have an interest in transplanting and setting down roots. So much so, I've already put your idea to the test over the last couple of weeks. I dispatched a few vampires to visit one of your mining colonies. They made the trip in a quarter of the time, being able to survive untouched as the ship shortcut its way through Sub-space."

"Impossible. The things that dwell in that dimension consume any life that—oh. Oh, that is good." Yes, this would work even better than vampire-spliced humans enduring the rigors of intergalactic journeys at warp speed. Don had discounted Sub-space out of hand, but if Dracula were telling the truth, then forget F-Zero, he would rule the local super-cluster.

"I see you understand. Those who dwell in Sub-space detect the living. Vampires are invisible to them. And so my agents arrived at colony M64 and a sad sight they beheld. Your colony on that world has perished. Starvation, mostly. The soil was more alkaline than your surveys anticipated. Your quartermasters supplied them with too little seed, poorly matched to the alien environment to have any chance of sustaining agriculture."

Don shrugged. "Mistakes happen. No matter. The next wave will build over the foundation the previous laid down. As many waves as it takes until the colony prospers. The poor and criminals are far cheaper and more readily available than robots."

"Grim places, these colonies," said Dracula. "They may be better off dead. Even alive, they can only buy from company stores with company issued writ. Trapped in debt, even selling their own children isn't enough. Slavery in all but name."

Was this… condemnation spilling from this thing's lips? What a sentimental fool! Did this predator think he could school _the_ Don Genie on the complexities of morality? Now he would laugh. Don clamped tight his jaw, swallowed it down. Composure, under all circumstances. Surely this was a front to lull the unwary. A keen propagandist, this Tepes. He would be wary of such mythologizing from here on.

"Everyone has the same opportunity. If they apply themselves, work hard, they'll prosper. It's just that many of these people are colonists precisely because they lack the drive to succeed. I clawed my way out from the slums by seizing every chance that came my way."

"And your parents' neutronium mining fortune certainly did no harm. How many billions of credits did you inherit when you came of age?"

Don allowed himself to frown. This thing could never survive in the world of the ultra-rich. It said too many things that should not be said. "Well, billions of credits aren't much if you don't learn how to manage them."

"Your colonists, would they think the same? A few thousand would've changed many of their lives."

Who cares what the poor think, Don was about to shout when Dracula once again cut him off, looking over his shoulder and announcing, "Dinner has arrived."

As the servers zipped about, Don once more caught a trace of something putrid. As soon as he ate, he would have them all killed. Vampire and staff. No court would convict him. He paid too well for that to happen.

Salads and soup were set before them. Unusually, the later courses were laid out as well, on covered plates in the table center.

Don studied the Cup's servers for the first time that evening and noticed something odd. Genie Holdings colonists were often given genetic grafts that would bolster their survival chances on inhospitable worlds. Genes to aid in living with extreme temperatures or a dearth of water or toxic atmospheres. And these grafts included a tag, a life-long brand, that at a glance would tell you how a colonist had been genetically modified and from which specific colony they hailed. Changes to skin were the most common tags in use. The doomed colonists of M64, a cool and rainy world, had a tag of gray-toned skin and dark freckles over their whole body, signifying an artificially granted trait for cold endurance and a tolerance for cyanide poisoning.

The wait staff, the doormen, and the musicians still harping away, all had the gray skin and freckles gene-graft tagging of the M64 colonists.

Feeling cold and damp himself, Don stilled. Coiled. Bracing himself for the attack.

Not bad, this Dracula. He'd lasted a few thousand years for a reason. And as for his imagination…

Don judged it was time for some wine. His hand shook not at all while pouring. He lifted the fluted glass to drink, paused as he breathed in its bouquet. This wasn't wine. And the soup, which he'd taken for a gazpacho, wasn't cold tomato soup. He was no longer sure what were the curled, pink things resting wet on the spring greens. Could no longer trust his own eyes.

The servers snatched the shiny nickle covers off the platters. The music stopped. On each plate sat the severed head of an officer in his personal security battalion. Some still had remnants of expression. A grimace of pain, or eyes and mouth stretched in utter panic.

Don blinked into infrared mode. No targeting lasers painted Dracula. Blink to x-ray. No commandos waited under the tables or dangled from the crystal dome above. All right then.

Returning to visual spectrum default, Don rose and made a slow turn. The band, the waiters, the cooks, the 'wealthy' patrons dining at far tables, all of them gray and speckled. Every eye unblinking, the pupil expanded to the eye lids. Some watched with heads tilted to the side, others gripped chef's knives or tenderizing mallets or waited empty handed. All were still, in the way of a statue poised on the brink of a long fall, ready to fall forward into crushing motion any second. The black gaze of the dead surrounded him, several ranks deep. The smell of bad meat was stronger now. Don gagged on it.

"They're all…"

"My agents found no survivors at M64," said Dracula. "Thankfully, the ship's freezers were spacious, purposed to haul produce across interstellar distances. I haven't been telling you the complete truth, Mr. Genie. You see, I didn't come here to bargain, or even to threaten. This whole complex, and the committee chairs who rule from it, are all already mine. I own F-Zero. And as the new proprietor of the King's Cup, I'd like to solicit your feedback as a gourmand of considerable taste. Don't hold back, now. Let me know your real thoughts on your dinner experience tonight."

"Subpar." Don looked back to Dracula and took careful aim. Lifted his arm. A man didn't become a multiquintillionaire without knowing how to do his own dirty work.

Nanowires shot from the tips of his fingers, sinking molecular hooks into Dracula's left arm. In microseconds legions of nanomachines marched down the wires into the monster's body. They would hijack his nervous system. Dracula would live for several human lifetimes, experiencing whatever Don could imagine, in the span of a few seconds relative to Don's perspective. First he would have Dracula order his forces to stand down. Then he would have the vampire imagine he'd won, only to crush his illusions over and over again. And then he'd put him through decades of prison and pointless torture, then the dreams of false hope and victory again, repeating until Dracula lost all ability to discern what was real.

"Now, leech. Let me show you what a real take over fe—feels aaaAAA!"

Cold fire, and a sickening pressure ran up his chest. Don looked down upon the slope of his torso and watched as a scythe blade slid out his body, neatly bisecting his rib cage. Death, bones clattering, gray hood streaked with blood, climbed out of Don Genie. He stood on the table and looked down, teeth bared in an eternal smile.

"It is an ingenious toy you've used on my friend," said Death. "But you should've realized that as quick as your germ-machines can race they never had a chance, for we the dead travel faster. Now, it is my abiding sorrow that I may reap a soul once. Thanks to your devious ingenuity, I will do what was previously impossible. How long, I wonder, until I grow weary of this dark joy?"

Don struggled to answer, but all he could do was cough blood. Down swung the curving blade. Pain, impossibly cold, traced a line through his neck. The view jostled and swam as his head tumbled off his shoulders.

Don snapped awake, shellacked in cold sweat. Dracula sipped blood from a glass, watching impassively. Someone tapped Don on the right shoulder. He turned and regretted it. Death's face crowded in, smelling of apple cores and withered flowers. The tip of the scythe took him through the right eye. Rather than shock sparing him the pain, he felt every cold centimeter of the steel's fine grain slide in. The agony of this barbaric lobotomy was worse than any other pain experienced in his long life. Again the horrid swallowing sensation as mortality overtook his thinking mind.

He blinked, feeling normal. The reanimated colonists stood their vigil about him, and Dracula still reclined nearby.

"Hey, big man. Comin' in high on this one," shouted Death.

Don would not give him the satisfaction of looking up. The scythe took him from beneath, up through the groin.

Somewhere, close by and yet vastly distant, was a right arm that still, mostly, belonged to him. Between executions, Don concentrated all his iron will on moving that arm, micron by micron. It was the work of years. Each shattering contact with Death's scythe freshly agonizing, he could never grow inured to the trauma, but as the months crawled by he discovered a kind of zen stasis in the rhythm of endless repeated killings.

At long last, he flexed the key arm muscles to sever the connection. Slimy with sweat, he stood in the dining hall of the King's Cup, tears and mucus rolling down his face to pool on his shirt as the man who terrorized the Federation's elite power brokers wept like a beaten child. Don's internal clock showed time duration of nanowire connection was two and a half seconds. The night was still young.

Nearby, metal scraped against metal. Don Genie spun about, trying to find the scythe before it found him. A strangled scream escaped his throat. "No no nooo," he pleaded through numb lips, words coming out broken and soft. The noise was only Dracula rubbing fork and knife together.

Already his cortextual augmentations flushed out his consciousness, doing their best to reestablish a baseline. Render the trauma of an interrupted eternity down to a sanitized list of dry facts, bitter to recall, but removed from sensual memory. When diagnostics reassured him PTSD trigger formation had been successfully hindered, Don cleared his throat.

"Hardly needs to be said. You'll pay for that."

Dracula tilted his head, teeth bared in a shark's wide smile. "I think you have things turned around." He tapped a curling slip of paper on the table. In the King's Cup, they still printed tickets on dead tree as a further show of extravagance. "It's your turn to pick up the check."

And then the animate dead crashed forward, heavy limbs beating down on Don, clammy fingers clawing for his eyes. When this was over, he would take ten showers, one after another. He growled, activating another suite of augs. The g-diffusers in the soles of his shoes activated at full power as flamethrowers in his palms hosed down the thrashing mob with jellied fire. Don jetted to the crystal dome above, one upraised arm firing a concussive shockwave. Face tucked in, he held his breath as crystal powder snowed over his head. Into the muggy night he rocketed. Never had the sticky, stagnant Mute City air tasted so sweet.

Redirecting his flight, Don set course for his private cruiser. Perhaps the soldiers set to guard it would still be alive. In a second he was halfway there, and he could already see the cruiser was burning. And then he saw nothing, for a shroud of a million black wings closed over him. Shrill squeaking and the rustle of dry leather deafened Don. The swarm of bats smothered him, closing over his face, weighing down his limbs. He activated his personal defense field. It shorted out an instant later.

And then the bats left him. The g-diffusers, having only portable, easy to conceal power supplies, ran out of power. Down he spiraled into the dark waters of the river. Even as a child, Don had suffered from poor buoyancy. His clothes drank the waters, and his many implants all conspired to drag him deeper into the slimy, polluted depths. A broken piece of him wanted it to end here. The rest of his mind set itself to lateral thinking, reviewing all the options. He had a flotation device installed in his coat, surely. He did!

Upon activating the flotation ring installed in his coat, Don Genie shot to the river's surface midst an upfall of bubbles. A familiar face was waiting for him on the river's bank. "No. Impossible. Falcon destroyed you."

The mountain of a man crossed his muscle swollen arms and thrust back his horns in disdain. "Falcon is a fool. Shadows are immortal. The brighter the light..."

"The stronger we become," Don answered. Damn it all, here came those cursed tears again!

Black Shadow smiled as he knelt to pluck Don from the river. He hefted the quintillionaire dripping from the water with ease, the strength of his hands warm and familiar as any loved one's embrace.

"How good it is to see you, old bean. Come, together we must retreat to my palace. With our forces combined, no one will be able to stop us. There are these troublesome vampires…"

Don Genie froze. He was seeing what he wanted to see. Trusting his fool eyes.

"I'm afraid you don't grasp the situation, Genie." While Black Shadow had always sported saw teeth and elongated fangs, the red light in his eyes was new. The same crimson ghost light of Dracula's eyes.

"No. Please, no."

Black Shadow shook his horned head. "Orders are orders. Don't struggle, and this will be over quick."

Thrash as he might, Don could not break Shadow's iron grip. "Somebody help me, damnit! Don't you slackers know who I am? Don Genie. I'm _Don Genie_. A million credits to anyone who saves my life. Don't ignore me! Help me or I'll have you all killed!"

It did no good. Walkers and vagabonds along the river walk turned away, or passively recorded the drunken F-Zero 'cosplayer' drag his drunk friend back towards F-Zero HQ. A pair of young gang bangers had the audacity to point and laugh. Don resolved, once he was out of this mess, he would cull street camera footage, find out who they were, and spend a small fortune to educate them with some manners at one of his many dark sites.

Out of weapons energy and exhausted, he could only watch as the unlit entrance to F-Zero Execution Project HQ loomed closer until it swallowed him whole. To deny the presentiment that he would not exit that doorway alive, Don clung to his determination. He would seize upon the first opportunity to escape that came his way. He had always excelled at taking advantage of others' mistakes.

Inside, the HQ was quieter than he'd ever known it. This was no longer a place of business but a crypt. The show the vampire had put on for his sake was over. Black Shadow carried him into the core of the engineering office wing, near building center. There Dracula greeted him beside a row of drafting desks. Skeletons, moving without aid of muscle or sinew, were hard at it scribbling obscure designs on sheets of grid-lined polymer. Black Shadow handed Don off, slapped him on the back, and vanished. Dracula took him by the arm and pulled him away, out of the office. By their respective proportions they were like a father dragging along his spoiled, fat son.

"Are you ready to be my lieutenant now?" the bastard leech asked.

Don Genie huffed and hurmmed. "You've made an elegant case. But I will of course wish to see a contract. And I insist there be clauses included which guarantee tenure and promotion after a yearly cycle of acceptable job performance."

"I have our agreement prepared and ready for your signature, just around this corner here." Dracula spoke this assurance in a tone Don did not like in the least.

They strolled through another ordinary office space, yet Don regarded these drab workaday surroundings with mounting horror. Many of the lights were off or turned down low, but nothing sinister hovered in the shadows. Nothing slithered or watched from the darkness beneath desks and chairs. Don wished the monsters would show themselves, yes, come right out with it. Let's have it over with. Once you saw something horrible, you began to have power over it. This scenery of the mundane, the carpet and cubical and desk and chair and beige painted walls, they seeded hints in imagination's fecund soil of possibilities for worse things yet to come than what had already been experienced.

Don began to pant. Began to bleat like a trapped sheep. What more was Dracula hiding from him, around that corner?

The vampire jerked him to a halt. "This won't do, Don," he said in a stern tone. Dracula frowned, very much the concerned father figure. Don's father had never made that face at his son. Don's father had acknowledged him as little as possible while denying his heir nothing. Don looked up into Dracula's red eyes. Easier to pretend in this dim light that he was human. Don't hurt me, oh gods, just don't hurt me.

Dracula handed him a handkerchief and waited while Don wiped off some of the fear sweat and river slime. "Better. As my officer, I expect you to comport yourself with dignity. You should be quite practiced at that. Just be the haughty, supremely confident Don everyone knows and hates. You can do that for me, can't you?"

Don nodded, barely stopping himself from yipping his agreement like an eager dog. "Certainly. You'll never have anyone work harder for you than I will."

"Good. Now, let's get that contract out of the way."

Around the corner were the rest of his guard battalion. They were all in a neat rows, spaced evenly throughout the cafeteria. Planted posterior first on top of thick wooden stakes, the sharpened spikes had, through the simple working of gravity, forced their way up into the soldier's bodies. Judging by their progress down the stakes, the battalion had been there a while, an hour or two perhaps. Where had that time come from? One soldier's impalement had progressed far enough the stake's tip would soon force its way out through his mouth. Most of them were still alive, but had little to say. At the far end of the room, Don saw there was still an impaling stake vacant, its wood vividly pale, moist, stripped of bark, and planed. Where had Dracula gotten the trees?

Dracula led, then dragged Don Genie down the row of slowly dying men. Don grabbed at his coat sleeve, mewling. His shoes kept slipping in the blood. Brought to the foot of his own spike, a flicker of his old self repossessed him. Don stood straight, smoothed out his shirt, and jabbed a finger into Dracula's firm chest.

"You've had your jokes. Now you listen here. Harming a hair on my head will bring the wrath of the entire Federation down on your undead ass. I have a lot of friends in every high place there is. I will draft a contract and you'll sign it and be damn glad I'll overlook your insolence this once, in light of your obvious skills. Genie Holdings needs a vampire with your track record."

Dracula took him under the arms and hoisted up his bulk with ease. Don felt lightheaded, giddy. As if he was watching this all happen to a character in a stream show. Because there was no way this was real.

"Don't you understand!" Don screamed. "Things like this don't happen to people like me. I don't deserve this! I don't belong here!"

The sharp point of wood poked through the seat of pants, its coarse surface coming to rest against his unmentionables. This was real. The fact of what was about to happen to him was a fist of frozen stone grown huge and heavy in the cavity below his heart.

"Puh." Don bit his tongue until it bled. He made another attempt. "P-please."

Dracula paused. He looked Don Genie in the eye.

"It's like you always said, Don. Those who should be at the top, get there. That's all there is to it."

And then he let Don drop, with no short, hard thrust to set the point. Gravity's tender embrace and Don Genie's considerable mass took care of the rest.


	10. Climb Up! And Get the Last Chance!

Alucard rushed to the eastern parapet of Castlevania to watch dawn break over the pine shawled hills. Warm peach light spilled over tower and spire. A child, he was barely tall enough to see over the short wall of stone. As he tried to lift himself up, straining to the tip of his toes, the parapet vanished and he fell forward. Past roof tiles and eaves he flew, a vast emptiness with no bottom yawning to receive him, falling, falling as his mother's voice rang in his ears.

Alucard awoke to the sensation of free fall. The emptiness certainly did have a bottom, and it was rushing towards his face at terminal velocity. The impact foam had evaporated to a dry gray powder easily brushed away, leaving him free to move. A quick transformation to bat, some frantic flapping, and a second later he alighted on the unhallowed ground, his boots striking a hollow note. The floor was made of bones. Millions of bones, great and small, once belonging to humans and monsters and strange beings the nature of which he could not guess, all of them old and dried to the same gray white. The basement of the tower they had blasted through was, until recently, a sealed charnel pit. With the inrush of air, torches in sconces ringing the circular chamber burst into flame, providing the only light.

The mass grave beneath his boots heaved and shuddered. A gust of fetid wind blasted his back. He spun to face the threat, sword ringing as it cleared its scabbard, just in time to espy Captain Falcon tumbling out from the smashed open cockpit of the Assail. The tank lay on its side, a crumpled wreck. Below it sprawled a far grander ruin, a hill of scales and rippling muscle which shuddered as it took long, pained breaths.

Falcon, snoring, slid off the torso and flopped onto a giant leathery arm. The bicep flexed, rolling Falcon onto the bones below, foam dust streaming off him. Alucard recognized that arm.

Finally awake, Falcon, jamming fingers up beneath his helmet visor to wipe his eyes, sauntered up to Alucard. "Not my best crash landing, but hey, any you can walk away from…"

"We are not alone here," Alucard said.

Falcon snapped fully awake, casting his gaze wildly about, fists held ready. "Dracula? Point me at him."

Alucard lowered his sword but did not resheath it. "No. And I believe the danger is not great, but stay wary. Allow me to do the talking."

"Wait. The hell is that thing? Is it a vampire?"

Alucard decided not to dignify the question with a reply. Falcon would have the answer soon enough. He moved to where he could look the reptilian colossus in its oozing, clouded eye. Careful to stand outside lunging distance of the long jaws, he made the slight bow which etiquette required for old enemies meeting on the field of battle.

"Greetings, Galamoth, Emperor of the Golden Void. It seems by our blundering my companion and I have set you on yet another cycle of death and rebirth. I beg your forgiveness, our only intention was to force entry into this castle and combat my father. I see now, perhaps we have done you a grim favor."

Galamoth lay heaving and filth slick, scales blackened with age. The Falcon Assail, falling from the ceiling, had slammed like a mace blow into his rib cage, collapsing it. Pink organs mottled with gray heaved wetly out of the sundered flesh and splintered ribs. Dracula had placed the reptilian galactic emperor in this oubliette and sealed over the hatch, abandoning him to slowly rot—a process well underway.

Galamoth writhed and hissed a few words in a language lost to the stars.

Alucard turned to Falcon, and explained in a hushed tone. "There is something I neglected to inform you of before. With each defeat of its master, Castlevania collapses into ruin. When Dracula resurrects, Castlevania then reforms, and its slain denizens are likewise remade whole. Galamoth, as a prisoner of my father, is likewise resurrected with each cycle of destruction and recreation."

"So we just punched his ticket for a nice, long dirt nap ahead of schedule."

"Exactly."

"Why does he look like he's been buried alive for a year, then?"

"I'm not certain. Perhaps Dracula singled him out for this ill treatment and in doing so subverted Castlevania's unnatural laws. For what purpose?"

In a booming, whistling outpouring of breath, Galamoth spoke in words which translated themselves in the mind of the listener. "Son of Tepes, and Bearer of the Eternal Falcon, know that your arrival has been expected. For an age the usurper imprisoned me here that I may serve as thine doorkeeper."

The giant reptile twisted, placing his ruined chest more fully into view. On it a circle of glyphs flickered with the last of a dying spell's power. Alucard read it as a ward of attraction. They had been drawn in to this spot by sorcery.

"And why would my father do this?" asked Alucard.

A tortured intake of breath into the last intact lung, then the reply rattled out. "That I may not threaten the upstart's supremacy in this age of interstellar voyaging. He fears that I will reclaim the Throne of Stars he stole from me. As well, he intends that I greet you as you enter the final stage of your lifelong and futile quest. Welcome, Lisa's son. Welcome to… struggle's end…"

"Wretch, I have fought this battle through every century, always to the same result. This time will be no different. My father will fall, and you with him."

A vicious, hacking cough racked Galamoth. The eye squeezed closed, weeping ichor. With his enormous scaly palm he slapped the floor, setting the tower to rumbling. Louder and wetter and more mocking the hideous sawing became until Alucard recognized its true nature. Galamoth, Emperor of Nothing, was laughing.

"Time! The pup squeaks of Time! How rich! You cannot begin to comprehend the convoluted paths through time your father the pretender travels. He has walked before you and after. He has sojourned into the future and spied what place there may yet be in it for his squatter's kingdom. He has witnessed a past more ancient than your plague-ridden Europe ever knew before it too became forgotten history. Dracula stole my empire from me, and with it a glorious future that no longer exists. Timelines are chief among the casualties of his hungers. Now he comes for yours. This has been long in the planning."

"To think, one once so high, reduced to such japery. A poor sphinx you make, seeking to confuse me with cryptic nonsense that wouldn't frighten a child." Alucard turned away, cape swishing. The horror Galamoth's words inspired he refused to show. He misliked Dracula's newfound proficiency with mind games. "Come, captain. Time is precious and there's nothing of import to keep us here."

Scale and steel scraped over bone. The sense of danger approaching obliged Alucard to look back. Galamoth heaved, wheezing laughter guttering out in the agony of his straining. "Yes. Choose the comforting lie. Bitter truth will not avail you now." He raised his left arm and lifted high in a quaking grip what had lain hidden behind his ruined body. The scepter, symbol of his emperorship and focus for his magic. Alucard made to dash forward to cut the limb down, but Falcon's meaty arm barred his path.

"Relax. I got this." Falcon set fingers to the side of his helmet, lips mouthing a silent command.

Alucard tried to shove him aside. "Stop, you do not underst—"

The Falcon Assail detonated, for an instant lighting the charnel cell in nuclear white. At the same instant several crackling orbs of shadow magic, all the more dark and menacing set against the wash of light, spiraled furiously from the scepter.

The shockwave of the tank's demise flung Alucard and Falcon to the wall. Falcon wore his most expensive racing suit, Alucard activated his shielding spells, and thus they avoided decorating the masonry with their viscera. Alucard and Falcon rebounded off the cool stonework with minimal damage and landed on their feet. Nothing remained of Galamoth but a soot ringed hole in the bone strata and after images strobing through their retinas. The shadows of Galamoth's parting shot had likewise survived, and the killing spells were homing in.

Alucard pushed a dazed Falcon away, the darkling spheres eating through the skeletal floor where he'd stood a second before. Each spell sank down in a hiss of gray smoke. Already punctured, the weakened floor crumbled, brick and bone cascading into a lightless pit. Falcon dropped into the abyss, arms pinwheeling.

Alucard dived after him, transforming into bat form.

Too late. From out the walls (which cored downwards farther than his sonar sense could 'see') sprang an enormous spiked grate. This grid of spiked, cold rolled steel bars forced Alucard to pull up to avoid crushing or impalement. Flapping in place, he hesitated, searching for a way around. As he attempted the form of mist, sections of the wall fell away to expose giant fans, steel blades already spinning. Alucard recorporealized to avoid being blown away. Clever. The path downwards was closed, yet nearby a portal waited which had opened alongside the fan ports.

Galamoth had spoken the truth. Dracula prepared the way forward.

* * *

On second thought, maybe setting off reactor collapse inside a confined space of dubious structural integrity shouldn't have been his first choice. And, had it been his imagination, or was that floor made of bones? In free fall down a shaft of stone, Falcon had free time to ponder the deep questions.

Should've listened to Frosty the Gothman. A smidgen of remorse panged Falcon. This was Alucard's home turf. When a man knew his stuff you owed him the respect of hearing him out. Falcon resolved to correct this shortcoming next time they met.

In another second he was about to meet up with the floor. Tapping the Power of the Falcon, he performed a Falcon Kick midair. At the same time wings of fire sprouted from his ankles and shoulder blades. One great flap and he settled feather soft on the stones, heated air stirring up dust. He was convinced Castlevania's great age wasn't a pretense. Anyone faking such ancientness wouldn't think to spread so much dust around.

The manifestation of the Falcon squawked inside him, a caution against overdrawing its power too much at a time. It knew they were deep in enemy territory with more fighting to come. A few minutes of rest would be best. But he didn't have the time. Alucard needed him.

Looking around, it was like standing in the dry bottom of an enormous well. Only one door. He knocked, and the door opened. Through it he stepped into the air conditioned stillness of the F-Zero Execution Project HQ lobby. Captain Falcon blinked.

The door he'd come through had vanished. Outside the front doors and their flanking windows a heavy mist obscured the view of Mute City. Hairs rose on the back of his neck to test the air. Danger swirled in the fan blown breeze. Instinct prompted that there was no exit to be found by going out doors. Only way out, only way back to Alucard, was forward.

Walking through the corridors, the complex seemed to be abandoned for the night. The occasional shadow slid away around a corner. Sometimes it sounded like heavy breathing in the ventilation ducts. Yet in the two times he'd visited HQ, early on in his racing career, the place had pounded with unceasing activity, crowded with office workers and engineers and other folks whose purpose in being there wasn't clear. Now, except for the far off whir of climate control, it exuded the atmosphere of a mausoleum.

Bored, Falcon decided to bee-line it to the records room.

Dossiers for registered F-Zero pilots rested under numerous layers of leading edge security technology. To break into HQ's records vault would require a small army of technically accomplished criminals. To infiltrate undetected long enough to accomplish a theft of worth was practically impossible. This left one option: blatant corruption.

It was an open secret to everyone that the security guards were eager for bribes. Fat stacks of credits, race memorabilia, autographs, and surprise appearances at their kid's birthday parties were all accepted forms of payment. Pilots of small talent were eager to snag an illicit peek at who had qualified for the GP, what their seeding would be, and the specs of the machines their competitors would nose up to the starting line. This info was, by Project law, to be kept secret until after a Grand Prix concluded, in order to facilitate a more fair competition. In practice, allowing this minor cheat to continue under their collective noses meant the Execution Project avoided espionage campaigns escalating into ever more destructive attempts at sabotage. To stymie the spies, most pilots would alter their machine's specs, within legal limits, just before a race.

Captain Falcon took a dim view of this 'tradition.' He feared no opponent, and worked hard to make sure he and his car were ready for the unexpected. Though the bounty hunter half of him was tempted sometimes, if a pilot was also his bounty. For a hunter, staying informed was essential to staying alive.

The records vault door stood ajar. This was a trap, he thought. Falcon went in anyway.

No polymer printouts in the file cabinets. The computer consoles had been smashed to pieces. He was ashamed of harboring a slight disappointment. Against honor, he'd wanted to read 'Shadow Lord's' dossier.

Predictably, turning around revealed the exit was closed. Two soldiers in full plate mail blocked the door, axes in their gauntleted fists. They wore horned great helms, visors lowered to hide their faces. Falcon had a few similar pieces of armor in his collection. The axe knights stepped aside, mail clanking, to let someone else through. The man who slunk out from the shadows was a surprise. A nasty one.

Captain Falcon stared down his twisted reflection, dressed in blood reds and lurid purples. Blood Falcon set hands to hips and struck the smarmiest pose in his repertoire. "This is too damn sweet. I hoped it might happen, oh did I ever. But I never dared expect it would be you taking the bait tonight."

Blood Falcon's face stretched into a twisted grin. Fangs poked over his lower lip. "I'm going to enjoy this. The Master will pay me well for you, though I'd do this for free."

Captain Falcon drew the anger of frustration inside to fuel the fire of righteous fury already blazing bright. With so many punks crawling out of the gutter tonight, he'd need all the strength it could provide.

"You always were a cheap knockoff, Blood. You wanted me, you could've called me out anytime. But you never did have the guts to face me one-on-one. How much is Dracula paying you? Better be enough to cover your funeral expenses."

Blood Falcon affected casualness as he swaggered closer and plucked a model racing machine off the reading desk. He tossed it from hand to hand, always fidgeting, never able to keep still, as if Black Shadow had added a driving restlessness to his code in the hopes it would propel Blood to outspeed the man he'd been cloned from.

"Can't do my own wet work, you say? Sometime I'll show you the footage of me taking out half of Don Genie's personal guard force all on my own. Before the end they were throwing down their weapons and begging for their lives. Showing me pics of their kids, the whole bit. It was pathetic."

"A coward has no business judging the weak from the strong."

Blood Falcon laughed and dashed the toy car against the wall, plastic shards flying everywhere. He spun on Falcon, snarling. "And prey caught in the falcon's talons cannot escape death by crying for mercy. You're always handing out your sanctimonious little platitudes, captain. Always so sure you're better than me, but no one can argue with results. Tonight I'll finally prove who's better."

Falcon rolled his shoulders and put a hand on the grip of the Chozo pistol. "You won't prove anything, relying on your helpers." He indicated with his sizable chin the twin axe knights standing at their posts. "Maybe you'd like to call your master in to take your ass beating for you while you're at it."

Blood Falcon went still. The graphical representations of his eyes went wide. The mocking tone dropped away, leaving his voice somber and awed.

"If you only knew who my Master is. The things he's capable of. Compared to him Black Shadow was a child playing with toy cars."

Blood tightened his gloved hand into a fist and stared into it, through it.

"I was made to obey my maker absolutely. When you slew Black Shadow, I was not set free. I was left broken, a incomplete machine, unable to function. You gave me a fate worse than death. Then the Master came and replaced what was missing. Gave me life beyond death." The skin of his lower face grew taut against the skull, his expression turning feral. "When he is your Master too, I will ask him, beg on my face if I must, to do the same for you. The Master will cut away your purpose for living and leave you to exist forever without it."

Falcon scoffed. "Another ambush, another bootlicker slobbering on his master's knob. Your boss needs to learn some actual racetrack skills if he's ever going to get the best of me. Now, quit yapping and bring it, before I fall asleep."

Blood Falcon shrugged. "Don't say later I didn't warn you. Sic 'em, boys."

Both knights took a step forward and flung their double-headed axes in sync, one going high, the other low. Falcon launched off the wall, twisting sideways to fly safe between the spinning blades. Landing into a roll, he uncurled into a kneeling position perfect for blasting the knights with the pistol. At least that was how it should have gone.

Captain Falcon cleared the axes, and then Blood Falcon intercepted him midair with an outthrust knee exploding into his recently healed ribs. Captain Falcon crashed into the wall. Spots of color danced before his eyes. He gasped, and for the sake of his protesting ribs, settled for a clumsy push off of the floor instead of kippering to his feet.

A throwing axe bounced off his helmet, throwing sparks. Blood Falcon kicked him in the stomach before he could fully rise. Captain Falcon let himself crumple, teeth clenched against the pain. Blood drew back his boot for another lick. Falcon tumbled into it, deflecting the blow on his shoulder guard while slamming a forearm into the standing knee. Captain Falcon rolled onto the downed Blood Falcon. To finish it fast, he hammered an elbow into the exposed neck.

Blood gurgled, trying to cough. The axe knights approached, sliding armor plates sounding like a knife's edge passing over an oiled whetstone. Falcon wondered how the hell they'd managed to silently approach the vault. They closed in with axes raised. Blood Falcon still pinned beneath him, he quick drew the pistol and double tapped both knights center of visor. A splash of blood, then both armor suits fell to pieces. No corpses spilled out, only a sputtering of blue flame.

"Huh. That's different."

Falcon turned the gun on Blood, noticing his face was strangely pale for someone close to choking to death. "First we're going to fix your throat. Then you're going to use it to tell me everything I need to know. Then you're going to space prison."

Blood stopped making horrid retching noises. He grinned and his eye graphic winked. "Nothing to fix here but you. This isn't a fight, captain. It's a capture."

Blood unhinged his jaw and spoke a word in a language Falcon had never heard before. The sound of it hurt his ears through the helmet's protection.

The floor split apart and they both tumbled into darkness. The landing came too quick to draw on the Falcon's Power and was none too gentle on his sore flesh.

"Getting real sick of trick floors and sudden drops."

Blood had vanished. In the absence of light, his visor automatically switched to infrared in time to show him two pairs of giant's hands reaching down. The palms were as large as his chest. Hazy, and a bit stunned, he moved too slow to escape before fingers seized him with iron strength. They squeezed his arms to his sides, clamped his legs together, then lifted him bodily off the floor. Rather than struggle to break free, Falcon relaxed in the grip of these monsters, saving his strength.

A glance around revealed Blood's trap had dumped him into the multi-level parking bunker beneath HQ. His captors were larger than most sapient aliens. They had to stoop to keep their head and shoulders clear of the ceiling. The more stacked of the two was a brute with a single large eye. Plenty of nasty teeth and scantily clothed. The other, half man, half cattle with bull horns to match, wore what looked like leather and bronze fetish gear.

These were the monsters Alucard had described. Like xenos, but not, somehow. They kept their attention fixed on Falcon, three eyes shining with unsavory hungers.

"So, this is the original," said a voice both growling and genteel. It held that tang of arrogance found in rich men grown proud by eating their competition alive. Falcon had tangled with the like before.

"He's yesterday's model. I'm the new and improved version," said Blood Falcon.

Captain Falcon picked him out, coming up a nearby ramp, walking beside a boiling cloud of deeper darkness infrared could not penetrate. Any mode of night vision needs some kind of radiation to function, and Blood's master gave off nothing. Falcon decided he'd hunt down some of that camouflage tech when this was all over.

The smudge of darkness paused its approach. Blood Falcon cringed away. He remained behind while the Master continued on. The longer Falcon stared into the blank spot, the stronger a sense of vertigo took hold, the same as gazing down a stellar black hole.

A new sound snapped Falcon back into the present. The sound of wet chewing and teeth scarping bone. Off to the left, on the edge of his vision, several figures crouched around a body on the floor. They appeared to be… eating, and lapping the blood off the cement. Some of the diners lifted their faces from the gore to stare in Falcon's direction. They too gave off little heat—silhouettes with wolf's eyes reflecting some unholy light source only they could see.

Over the slaughter house odors Falcon caught a whiff of perfume. Jody's favorite. But hers was not a rare brand. Coincidence?

Cold, cold fingers gripped Falcon's chin and turned his head to face the greater darkness. Long nails pricked into his skin. With a gram more applied pressure they'd start him bleeding.

"Best not pay any attention to them," the Master's voice purred. "You may be joining them soon enough. Captain Falcon, I presume? The crazed lunatic who ambushed me during the Death Wind qualifier. A good try, that."

The black horizon leaned closer, sniffing. "Yes, it's you. An excellent turn of good fortune. However, I already have one of you." A pause, expectant.

"If you're expecting me to sell myself like that bootleg dog panting on your heels, then you're in for a world of disappointment. Tell your rent boys to set me down. Let's have it out like men. Weighed on the balance of one another's knuckles, we'll learn what you and I are really worth. Given your craven choice of tactics, I'm wagering I'll come out ahead."

Falcon spat, unable to see if he hit the mark.

The air sucked out of the parking cavern. The human wolves stopped their smacking and cracking. The stone grips of one-eye and bull-man shuddered.

Unyielding blackness swamped Falcon. He was now inside the horizon. Cold lips tickled his ear.

"Ahh, the crisp sear of defiance. Delivered with chin outthrust, nostrils flared. The bravado of a hero doomed to die. I had almost come to miss this. I thought your type had long ago surrendered to extinction, and I the lone wolf in a universe of lambs. This is the tragedy of my existence, captain. That I must destroy the best of humanity when I would gladly settle for preying upon their worst. Welcome, captain, to my pack."

Teeth raked Falcon's throat, trailing drool. He tried to twist away, but there was no space to work with. Dracula plunged in.

Dracula stabbed deep. Falcon's consciousness narrowed to two points of agony, impossibly cold. Worse than the pain, a queasy pleasure flowed into his veins like venom. Something in this bite beguiled the flesh it victimized, made Falcon want to loosen up and enjoy the ride.

Instead, he reconnected to his banked fury. The manipulation of his mind and senses, along with the violation—no one wronged the Falcon like this and then sold it back to him as a favor. No one who wanted to keep their face intact.

The Might of the Falcon roared up from a core deeper within than any mere internal organ or abstract seat of the soul. Strength pure and burning enveloped him, annihilating the man to manifest the Falcon Cosmic. Enough rest. Time to make things happen.

Raptor's fire purged the parasitic invasion from Falcon's blood. Dracula reared back, finally visible. He writhed like a bitch-slapped viper. The vampire's head trailed smoke.

The Falcon flexed. Blinky and the bull-man reeled, ruing gushing stumps where hands had been.

They took a step towards the stricken vampire. Bellowing, the bull rushed in to gore them with his horns. The Falcon flicked the back of their hand over his hairy head. The monster blew away in a gust of ashes.

Dracula uncoiled and began to laugh. Great booming peals of bleak mirth. He explored scorched lips with clawed fingers. Already long black hair regrew from a scalp singed half clear. He had nice hair, did Dracula. It was clear which parent had gifted Alucard his silken locks.

"Marvelous," said Dracula, with a savoring hiss which showed he meant it. "I have not tasted a power capable of matching mine since… Your last name wouldn't happen to be Belmont, would it?"

The Falcon cared nothing for the monsters at his back, their witch fire gaze attempting to drill into their spine, their tensed claws floating behind his shoulders, yet to fall. They didn't matter here. Not while the man yet grasped the Power. Not until they crushed the head of the dragon.

From nowhere a fog welled up. By the time the Falcon took five steps and stood toe-to-toe with Dracula, the vapor obscured the distant walls and made vague shapes of nearby columns and parked cars. The Falcon looked up into the heartblood red eyes.

"We can see you now."

"No. You glimpse a dim illusion reflected in dark, bottomless waters." Dracula raised high his long arms, cape unfurling like great wings behind him. The grisly voice burred with lust. "And just as you have hidden dimensions, I also conceal unfathomed depths." The crimson lined cape closed around its wearer, dark wings folding and refolding.

The Falcon growled and wound up an elbow strike. This guy was all smoke and mirrors. A stage clown didn't warrant a punch. "Your speeches bore me. The more you stall the worse it's gonna be. Let's have at it already!"

Bones creaking, flesh tearing and reforming, Dracula mocked them with laughter. "That's my line. Here I come."

Falcon swung. Dracula beat them to the hit with a fist larger than the bull-man's. Its knuckles bit into them, each drooling with a gnawing shark's mouth. The Falcon's view of the world went sideways.

Dracula loomed, shoulders cracking cement where they pressed against the ceiling. The vampire had given up all pretense of human form. Great wings, an ever changing face, or several faces. Slavering, teeth crowded maws like random sores across the body. Eyes that wept black acid tears. The human mind reluctantly tried and failed to take the sight in.

A taloned dragon's foot flashed out and kicked the Falcon into a nearby hovercar. They collided hard enough to cave in the trunk. Dracula, or the freak pet he'd unleashed to do his dirty work, plucked the Falcon up and tossed them into the ceiling with enough force to leave behind a dent.

Falcon forced himself to stand, panting, the world spinning, too lost to the rush of battle to much feel the pain. His grip on the Power was beginning to slip. Already they had become he. Had to finish this fast.

Dracula had withdrawn to the fog. Shadows circled in the mist. A hulking shape hurtled out of the murk only to vanish when Falcon lashed out with a counter strike. Blows struck at unpredictable angles, lightning fast, rattling his bones, battering him to one knee. The vampire gave him just enough space and time to recover his stance before striking again.

"You think this is intimidating me?" Falcon roared. "This stage show proves you can't face me in a real fight."

"Who says you rate a serious effort, captain?" asked Dracula, from behind Falcon's shoulder. Falcon swept for the knee, his leg meeting only the swirling fog.

"One straight shot at you is all I need. And when I find it, you're going down." Falcon wiped a glove over his mouth, streaking it with sweat and blood. Shaky on his feet, he put his back to a pillar and mustered his strength for a final rush.

"You deserve that much, I suppose. Your straight shot has found you." What split the fog in a headlong charge was hideous enough to crack his visor.

Falcon swallowed the hard talk. There would be no mind games with such an abomination. He clenched tight both fists. The flames of the Falcon ignited, licking up to his elbows.

The thing that laughed with Dracula's distorted voice surged forward, blasting from many mouths an evil fire of its own as it came on. Falcon spin kicked the fire ball back to sender. Dracula rammed through it without a flinch and tackled Falcon against the pillar. Concrete and rebar snapped, showering them with dust. It pinned him there with tentacles and arms and half-formed mixtures of other limbs.

A long, dripping, barb-tipped tongue snaked out to caress Falcon's chin. "I would fain have you for my collection, bounty hunter. Yet you may serve me better as provender."

"Collect this." Falcon shot up with the knee. Full power. Thunder exploded, deafening in the closed space. A shower of hissing gore cascaded down his extended leg.

The Dracula thing staggered backwards, looking down at the ragged, gushing crater that had been its crotch. Then its many eyes turned up to reevaluate the Falcon, striding forward, his limbs on fire but not succumbing to the flames.

"You might have a slim chance against me after all," Dracula admitted. "For now, we'll call it a draw."

"Better call an ambulance," growled Falcon. He vaulted into a flying kick, a raptor of fire riding his boot

The vampire dissolved backwards into the mist, and the mist boiled away before the flaming kick, leaving nothing behind but soft laughter fading into the distance.

Seconds passed. The garage was silent, the air clear. There were no monsters, no cannibals, no bodies. Only a few dark stains that might've been leaked car fluids, or something more sinister, but that was all.

"Running away?" Falcon shouted.

From far off, purring with amusement, Dracula's voice drifted to his ears. "Merely postponing our final showdown. Until then, I'd like you to meet someone special. Hurry along little hunter, and don't keep Alucard waiting."

Searching, Falcon spotted a detail he'd missed before. Fog drifted over a nearby ramp that led upwards. Drawing closer, he caught the strains of strange music. There was a voice, also. A woman singing. This was the way back into Castlevania, then. Or maybe HQ had become a part of Castlevania. Whatever. If Dracula wanted to divert him it made no difference. No matter how long the trail, a true hunter always tracks down his mark.

Shaking off the after-battle shivers, Captain Falcon jogged up the ramp, the cool mist soothing his bruised chin.

* * *

Alucard ascended through the hollow bones of the demon castle. When embraced by the living masonry of Castlevania, all the paths one might travel were set in stone. He could only climb higher, just as Falcon was set upon a low road. A subtle brutality indeed, to be forced to travel in the opposite direction of someone important to you. Every step a further abandonment.

At last there was an end to the climb. He emerged into a moon lit garden, perhaps a section of the Mute City park the castle had subsumed. Perhaps not, for mountains rose beyond the crumbling walls. Their peaks reared black and silver, slopes robed in dense pine forest. Such wilderness, if it yet survived anywhere on Earth would be found inside the subarctic circle. Castlevania was a crossroads between worlds and encompassed many strange spaces beyond its native grounds.

The cool night danced with feral pollen, smelling of sickly sweet perfume and underscored by the spice of damp earth. A granite brick path led through a carnivore garden. The lanes of hedges rustled even as no wind blew. Maneater bushes and corpse weeds crowded the path's margins, their fanged flowers striped with clashing colors, their branches bearing bloated thorns the lurid red of diseased blood.

The blossoms snapped after Alucard when he loped past. Ivy strapped treants lumbered out to block his way, the skeletal remains of executed criminals dangling from their branches. From the undergrowth lurched moss crusted cyborgs, their flesh given over to black molds. Their mechanical halves shrieked for lack of lubrication as they swiped at Alucard with rusting claws. Had they once been park-goers? Intruders? Castlevania collected specimens for its bestiary from every age in which it manifested. Mute City added its levy to the population of the monstrous and the damned.

Alucard wove through them, sword silvered by the moonlight as he cut down the treants he could not safely dodge, swatted the venom fat wasps from the air over head, and slew any feral cyborgs fast enough to bar his path.

Soon he stood at garden's edge, where a keep rose high like a canyon wall. Its red door pulled open for Alucard as he drew near, shutting itself behind. The castle remembered him, acknowledged his right to be here even as it must try to murder him per the orders of its master.

The resistance thus far had been light. Alucard was far more worried for the safety of Captain Falcon, the hurling burling dolt he had embroiled in his family imbroglio.

No sign yet of his lost dancing partner. Alucard paused in the vestibule corridor. Why did he care so much? Beyond the decency of valuing the lives of others, what did it matter to him if Falcon survived? Alone against the perils of Castlevania, Falcon would either prove himself the hero humanity needed or perish. Harsh, yes, but the existential threat of Dracula's reoccurring resurrection demanded a resolve to achieve triumph no matter the cost, even if one must resort to means beyond good and evil. Alucard pondered if perhaps he had allowed himself to grow cold. Inhuman. What would mother think if she saw into his heart now?

Immortality had its discontents. Along the walk of life, a mortal must drop some cherished possessions along the way. Innocence was usually the first to go. Immortals, having an endless road to tread, would inevitably unburden themselves of every treasure and virtue. Empathy would be one such, dumped roadside for the sands of oblivion to swallow.

Why care? The answer to this conundrum was simple. He liked Falcon. The captain recalled to fond remembrance Trevor Belmont and other rugged heroes Alucard had known. But where past familial curses and oppressive social mores necessitated abrupt departures from one another's lives, there was no such pressure to keep safe distance in the twenty-sixth century. During the flight to Port Town, Alucard had gone so far as daydreaming of taking Falcon (incognito) out for a night on the town, dining together, partaking in some manner of entertainment, or perhaps even sharing living quarters for a time, knowing that no one would find it objectionable. No one would care.

Ridiculous, of course. Falcon's taste in pastimes and his passions diverged sharply from Alucard's. Yet, surely, there was no harm in tame fantasies of friendship shared. Falcon, and everything that came with him, would fade from his unending life soon enough, one way or another.

The keep housed the Guillotine Gallery. Alucard braved the gauntlet of falling blades in high style, then detoured into the Chapel of Beasts to collect a Midnight Eye totem. Next, he weaved through the lethal laser matrix of the Lunar Prism Laboratory, and from there transitioned at last into the Secret Library.

If the beguiling odors of the Mute City Central Branch Library piqued Alucard's nostalgia, the universe of lost smells on offer as he wandered the open stacks moved him profoundly. For the first time in five hundred years, tears of blood pricked his eyes. Beautiful, beautiful.

Grimoires bound in the cured flesh of wizards floated from their shelves to swipe at him with sharp words and barbed metaphors. Demonic phantoms projected from haunted paintings of storm crashed galleons, burning for a duel. Skeleton librarians staggered forth wielding book presses with vices teethed like bear traps. Alucard fought through it all with a small smile on his lips. The library felt the closest to what humans called home than anything else he had ever known.

Beds of spikes, carven in the likenesses of nude men and women twisting in torment, carpeted the hallway to the library's special collections wing. Alucard set down the Midnight Eye totem on a nearby pedestal. Under its ceaseless stare, the nude spikes withdrew into the floor to preserve their modesty.

Beyond the door, Alucard found the librarian.

The old man reclined behind his desk. Dracula had piled bags of coins atop his brittle servant until only a velvet slipper and one hand, midnight blue with trapped blood, stuck out from the folds of overlapping sacks. Some of the coin bags had been overstuffed to bursting, their contents scattered across the carpet.

Dracula was a deliberate vampire. He was an artist. His actions held purpose and communicated meanings. The message here was clear. To aid Alucard, the master librarian had reached over the fealty due to his liege lord. Betrayal for the love of gold. And so Dracula had paid his treacherous servant back in kind.

Beyond waited the chain bound shelves housing the most dangerous literature ever scribed. No monsters or ghosts assaulted Alucard among these stacks. All the peril waited between the covers.

The books came in all colors, sizes, and ages, with bindings of leather or cloth and gems or bare plates of copper or lead or planks of witch elm. The rooms of the special collections wing were more intimate, no shelving higher than eye level, where the main library stacks stood taller than buildings. All books were secured to the shelves by lock and chain, with additional rune-etched chains crisscrossed over the cases.

Occasionally something would shift and dart in the shadows of the deep shelves as he walked by. Sometimes things he could not see, not fully, would throw their weight against the warding chains, rattling the links and hissing. Mostly the windowless chamber was quiet but for the distant moaning of wild winds beyond the stone walls.

Alucard soon found the archives of the Order of Ecclesia, which took up an entire row of cases. Dracula's worshipers looted the order's documents after Ecclesia's magics had brought a decisive end to his resurrection cycle in the early nineteenth century. Dracula had been keen to prevent humans from wielding these powerful spells against him a second time.

Browsing, he soon discerned the system of organization. Alucard located the locked cabinet which housed the scrolls containing the most powerful runes Ecclesia formulated—works of magic that could slay a god. From an inner coat pocket, Alucard produced a brass key older than he was, and unlocked the black padlock sealing the case. The chains fell in a musical clash and continued to writhe about his feet like exposed worms.

Alucard had hired Goroh to steal these spells. How close had the bandit chief come, he wondered. Scrolls, and not folios as Alucard had described to Goroh. That had been his second mistake. The first had been entertaining any hope of success.

Inside the cabinet were twelve scroll cases, each fashioned from lacquered bone. Alucard removed the case which held Dominus, the rune which had once slain his father with a single casting. He twisted the cap off and tipped the case over. Nothing fell into his hand but wasted seconds. The case was empty. As were two others. The rest held their assigned vellum scrolls inscribed with the glyphs necessary to create a spell, none of which were a misplaced Dominus.

Beside the scroll cabinet was a writing desk, complete with quills, a set of inks, candles, and other archaic writing implements. Ink, still damp, dotted its worn surface. Alucard could smell the recently extinguished wicks of the manticore tallow candles. Earlier today someone had been working here, burning the daylight hours.

Alucard wrapped himself in his cape. He felt more keenly the lack of warmth inside this sealed coffin of rock and dust and paper. Those empty cases held dread implications. What did Dracula want with a spell designed especially to destroy him?

The old terror woke anew—that in the ten thousand year chess game he played against his father, he had finally made one oversight too many, and thereby stumbled into checkmate.


	11. Shotgun Kiss

Falcon downed the whiskey. Mossy, birch bark somewhere in there, but good—hell, it was great. Smooth, with an afternote of star anise. When the liquid heat finished gliding down his throat he set the shot glass next to the others, forming a row of six. What to try next? "Who'd you say was the distiller for this one?"

The skeleton behind the counter took down the bottle and showed him. Mad Dog label by Rizer's Distillery. The label sticker bore the mascot of a snarling attack dog of indeterminate breed, well drafted in blue ink. Falcon was unfamiliar with the brand. Dracula stocked his bar with some hard to find stuff.

Falcon jabbed a finger at another bottle. "Hey, Bones, let's try the Toluca Lake Single Barrel next."

The skeleton went skittering off to pour the shot, toe bones clicking like a dog's nails over the hardwood floor. He wore a red vest and bow tie, and Falcon had found him standing behind the bar, so that made him the barkeep.

He slid Bones another five gold coins across the counter. No idea what the price was or if the skeleton expected a tip. In any case, the skeleton barkeep seem satisfied with the payments.

Falcon sometimes bartered material goods in lieu of Federation credits. Rarely gold and never in this amount. Certainly never minted. He had found the coin bag after knocking over a candle holder while subduing a giant wolf between his thighs. Someone must have hid it there in a hurry and forgotten about it, because why else would anyone keep money next to candles?

The parking bunker ramp had indeed led back into Castlevania. The fortress was a maze. Falcon struggled with navigating to Dracula's high tower, where he and Alucard had agreed to meet if they got separated. Enchanted doors or collapsed ceilings or a twisted turnabout of architecture always got in the way of traveling a straight line. After a while, he gotten turned around. And thirsty. Decided it was time to take a detour.

Around the very next corner he stumbled into this charming bar. Clean plaster walls. Lots of dark, rich wood for the furnishings and the shelving. Luxurious yet old-school stylish.

Castlevania was a dusty, grimy place, but the glasses and the marble counter were spotless, the seats and decorations clean. "You run a tight ship. I used to tend a bar myself. Under the name Bart Lemming, in a place called The Cliff. Get it?"

Bones' jaw creaked open, then hinged shut.

"Yeah, it's a real thinker. Man, the tales I could tell you of that place would take all week. Between bounty hunting and racing, there's a million stories in my head. Maybe I should write a book. Past a certain age, all you have left is stories. I'm sure I don't need to tell you."

The skeleton began scrubbing the counter down.

Falcon looked down into the shot. He was on a job, so number seven would have to be the last, for now. Times past, he would've done a full dozen and walked off to work without a stumble or a slurred word. How many shots could Blood Falcon have kept down, before he went vamp?

Sensing an oncoming case of self-pity, he mentally crushed the sentimental germ before it could multiply. Punch and kick as his brain might, some despair still seeped through. Best sterilize the infection with some alcohol.

He slammed the shot and dropped the glass next to the others. Dark yet alluring, the bourbon's flavors were difficult to define. Enough?

"Hell." Another five coins slapped the counter. "Pour me that Tenkai Star."

Bones shook his head, spine creaking.

Falcon leveled a finger at him, leaning in. "Look, you. The day Falcon can't handle seven shots—"

Bones held up eight finger bones. Falcon looked down, confirming there were indeed eight empty shot glasses. What?

"No one likes a pendant. Just one more. The last, and then I'm out of your hair."

The shoulder bones jerked up in a shrug, and Falcon received the ninth shot of his whiskey flight. He felt very calm. Slowed down. He stared into the tiny pool of amber brown, his frown reflected back in miniature.

"Say, have you seen my partner pass through here? Tall, long silver hair, a vibe so chill and sharp it can cut you and leave you frostbitten at the same time? He's the son of the boss, you outta know him."

Another rattling shake of the skull.

Falcon spoke into his whiskey. "He's beautiful. Always will be. I could write a dozen books about my life. His would fill a library. Before he's through, he'll stock several. And he'll never age. Never stop being so damn perfect."

Bones nodded, polishing a glass.

"What must that be like? To have it all, and have it forever? To live so long you forget you have anything to lose? If I had eternal youth I wouldn't take anything for granted. I'd hold onto myself, no matter what." And if I failed, so what? I'd still have my skill, Falcon thought.

He downed the Tenkai Star. Spicy cinnamon, with a cool pine finish. Perhaps his favorite of the samples. Falcon set the glass beside the others and forced himself off the stool.

Well, Alucard wasn't going to find himself.

Hearing a glass _tink_ against the stone countertop, Falcon looked back. The bartender poured a blue cocktail from a shaker into a martini glass, set a slice of orange on the rim, and slid it over. Really shouldn't, but what the hell. Falcon took a sip and turned to stone. Not stoned, but actually transformed into a statue in the likeness of his self, chiseled from gray stone, badly weathered.

The metamorphosis wore off in three seconds. For that brief interval he'd felt what it was like to be both very old and as close to unchanging as any material could be. Falcon had not enjoyed it.

"Heh. Thanks, old man. That helped put things in perspective." He tossed Bones the coin bag and left by a different door than the one he'd entered.

* * *

Falcon swept aside the last of the living dead rats and the dead living tombstones and exited the Dragon Catacombs.

Another red door before him, another wing of Castlevania to explore. His wish for a tour had been granted ten times over. Above the lintel, engraved in a limestone slab with baroque sculpted boarders, was the dark promise of what came next: _Circus Maximus_.

"Now this, this is more my speed," said Falcon, wincing at his own pun. The red door was eager. It didn't wait for his touch but creaked open under its own power. On the other side Falcon found a world wholly different to the dank catacombs.

The air was dry and warm, and smelled of clay and dust and spoiled blood. Sculptures crowded the halls. One collection composed an entire scene, a frozen moment of a race in progress. Charioteers three times bigger than men, chiseled from red and orange sandstones, mounted in spike-wheeled chariots driven by horses stamping and insane or giant cats sneering with bloodlust. Half-animal mutants reared back from the fury of their passage as skeleton spectators flung marble roses and laurel crowns in vain before the trampling hoofs and crushing wheels. Bitchin'. Falcon resolved to commission something similar yet grander for his lair.

Like the catacombs, an air of feral expectation haunted the circus. Falcon supposed this feeling haunted every corner of the castle. Whatever. This heap was about to witness a real race. It was time to go.

Excitement buzzed in his lungs as he searched for the track under brooding red arches and gargoyles peeking their grisly snouts out from pooled shadows. "Show me what you got," he hissed.

One exhibit of monsters dropped their disguise. A collection of sandstone chunks cobbled together in imitation of human form stepped forward. Beady ruby eyes glinted under a shelf of brow. Each slamming footfall shook dust and tiles from the ceiling. Blue steel suits of full plate mail brandished boomerang hand axes, as a vicious dog of enormous size walked on its hind legs, snarling and drooling. This last freak threw its bushy head back and howled. Falcon quick stepped in and backhanded its muzzle hard enough to send it tumbling.

"Stop wasting my time. I don't take shit from obsessive fanboys. I'm sure as hell not sparing any patience for cut-rate thugs who think they're scary just because someone passed them through a gene mixer. Show me the track! Get a car ready, you idling clowns."

The dog-man yelped and scampered off. The rock giant hesitated. The pair of knights pressed on, chucking their flying axes. Falcon caught a whistling axe from the air and hurled it back, splitting an empty helm in two. The rest of the suit collapsed with a groan and a gout of blue fire like its brothers before it. Falcon kicked its partner hard enough to collapse the breast plate. It also crumpled in magic flames. He turned to the big guy. "What's it to be, Sandy?"

The rock monster ponderously pivoted to the side and gestured with its hand-lump for Falcon to proceed. It dipped into a slight bow. Falcon nodded and went on, ready for a strike at his back which did not come.

Further in, a tunnel of stone. At tunnel's end danced the sinister red glow of wind raked bonfires. The scent of wood smoke stung like spice in his nostrils. From a vomitorium he emerged into the tiered stands of an old-fashioned race track.

Below, a packed dirt and sand track looped under a blue night sky. Roughly seven-hundred meters long and two-hundred across. The entire venue could seat a couple hundred-thousand spectators with elbow room to spare. At the moment it stood deserted. Several bonfires blazed in the track's median, their smoke spiraling up to meet constellations and a moon Falcon did not recognize. Another fancy projection, but damn convincing. The most important things were the two chariots waiting before the starting line. Both empty, wanting for drivers and something to pull them.

Falcon took a running leap out of the stands, landing in the sand. No silly ambushes this time. He reached his chariot without interruption. He knew it for his own because it sported a coat of blue paint, and a falcon's head adorned the front of the chariot box, beak parted mid-scream. The back ends of the side guards flared out in a pair of wings.

The chariot of his opponent was a runaway fireball, its box fashioned with trailing streamers of scalloped flames, as if one of the bonfires had been magicked into a racing machine. Its color scheme of pink and red reminded him of the Fire Stingray, of Goroh, and Falcon knew a moment of disquiet.

"Hope you're ready. I've wanted to do this for a long time."

Jody Summer sauntered up to the flaming chariot, tossing her hair and looking him over with a gaze as cold and gleaming as an unsheathed knife. Falcon took a deep breath and closed his mouth to hide all signs of surprise. Jody not only looked unharmed, she bounced with good health.

"You all right?" he asked, following proper form. "Where's Dracula?"

"Don't worry about him. I took care of it." Jody squeezed his arm. She leaned close, gazing intently into the helmet visor, seeking his eyes. "Just another rogue trillionaire with delusions of grandeur. He went down easy enough. Case closed."

This was passing beyond strange. First the surprise visit to Execution Project HQ, and now Jody was free, Dracula collared. It was too good, too clean and easy to be true. "Then—"

She spun away from him and, laughing, sprang into the chariot. "We race! Don't deny it. You've always wanted to test my limits."

Falcon did not deny it. Denial of earnest desire only embarrassed all involved. But things weren't so simple here. He looked down to the epic erection tenting his trousers. He did not desire Jody that way. They were friends, colleagues and comrades, and he was certainly too old for her. This wasn't proper, was it?

Fuck it. Fuck thinking. Falcon mounted the chariot. Though no beasts were yoked to the draft pole, and with no motor apparent, he had faith a source of drive would manifest. In Castlevania dream logic prevailed over reason.

Sure enough, two phantom steeds faded into reality. Faint at first, they soon shown with a pale green light, their supple bodies a slow roiling fire, their eyes glowing ghostly blue. It was the same for Jody's chariot. The nightmares had materialized already hitched and ready for action.

One of the horses craned its neck around and whispered to Falcon in the voice of his father. Falcon did not recognize the language, but he somehow knew the nightmare described to him his deepest fears.

Falcon snapped the reins. "I don't care. Save your breath for running."

Reason, real world logic, and the primal tug of instinct submitted their reports, all unified in theme: Turn back. It is insanity to go forward. Obviously a trap. This will be a stupid way to die.

Falcon sneered at these internal cringings. Shifting into reverse was an admission of defeat. Screw going back. Only forwards, now and forever. Full speed ahead.

A skeleton bearing a checkered flag tottered out to the starting line. It raised the flag, then dropped it.

Jody took the lead right out of start. Falcon followed in the tailwind of her laughter.

Demon hooves pounded the track, printing it with pale fire. Back and forth the charioteers exchanged first place, each growling and cursing and cackling as they struggled to stay in front.

First lap. Third lap. More. Falcon lost count. Decided it didn't matter.

Sweat poured down his back. His teeth ached and his eyes stung. The effort was great and he found it sweet. Jody goaded him to go faster and he leered back, cracking the reins lest she surge ahead. Her dark joy threatened to tease his cock to bursting. Why had it never before been like this between them?

All too soon, the finish line approached for what he instinctively knew would be the last time. Panting more than their ethereal horses, the charioteers strained to reach the end first. The thunder of hooves and the rattle of wheels filled his brain, leaving no room for thought.

Finish! He had defeated Jody by the width of a nightmare's nostril.

She bounded out of the chariot and rushed into his arms, further stoking his fire with cool, damp kisses.

"You are magnificent. As victor, claim your prize."

With regret carving him deeper than shrapnel, Falcon pushed Jody back to arm's length. "This…" He struggled for air. Since when did he get this winded from racing? "This isn't how I want it to be between us."

She cupped his aching balls through his pants. Her touch carried a chill which bled through the fabric. Jody holding him like this, it was one of the most beautiful sensations Falcon had ever experienced. "I think these are telling me the truth your mouth denies."

Falcon gently disengaged her hand.

"No. That's final. I care for you, but this isn't how it's going to be." Saying it dulled regret's edge, but he still felt cut.

Jody backed away, lips twisted in a snarl. She turned from him. "Coward. Lucky the world doesn't know what I do. What a weakling you really are beneath the mask of your legend."

Falcon shook his head. This dream had worn out its welcome. Time to return to reality.

"Soon the world will know. When I parade your shattered corpse on the hood of my Bull through every track in the Grad Prix," boomed a familiar voice. A hateful voice.

There, above the starting line, in a private box was set a marble throne. It had been empty before, and Falcon paid it no mind. Now a shape in deep shadow sat coiled upon it.

"Black Shadow. So it was you behind this Dracula scheme from the beginning." Falcon's hard-on remained, but it had become a boner of murder.

"There is only one master of the night." Black Shadow rose, cape unfurling into a long, fluttering patch of darkness. "Happy to see me?"

"You're dead."

"This is a place where dead things walk again, in case you haven't noticed. And so too will you take your place here, to shamble alongside your peers in the legion of decay." He gestured to the skeletons furling the race flag and waiting on him with platters of wine and roasted meat. "My servant, for all eternity!"

"I get it. Staying dead's a habit you've fallen out of." Falcon changed the set of his feet and put up his fists. The Might of the Falcon welled up inside, like something huge trying to pop his rib cage open and escape. Their power warmed their host, chasing away the chill of soiled honor. "You just need someone to teach you again how it's done."

Falcon launched at Black Shadow. The air screamed in his ears, nibbling away his intoxicating speed as it tore in half over his chest. As he flew, Falcon cocked back his fist. "Faaalllcon—"

The Dark Lord watched him hurtle closer and sipped red wine.

"PU—"

"Falcon, stop!" Jody, on her knees before Shadow, arms thrust out. Tears glittered in her eyes.

"The hell outta my way," he roared. The real Jody would never plead on her knees, not for anyone or anything. Besides, she was trained better than to stand in the line of fire. Tonight, he stopped for no one.

The old power licked and tickled across his skin like a lover's caress, readying his humble flesh to deliver terrible vengeance upon the wicked. Their might manifested around his fist in the aspect of the Falcon, beak spread, eyes burning with the fearsome brilliance of stars.

At the last instant, Black Shadow dissolved into a creeping cloud of liquid night. Punch canceled, Falcon skidded to a stop before the empty throne.

The pretend-Jody grimaced in disgust, rising to her feet. "Nobody appreciates a classical performance these days." The crawling darkness coalesced around her like a shroud.

"You're a lazy actor. Didn't study your subject. Jody wouldn't act the way you did, coming off a job. She takes her work too seriously to screw around."

"Silly boy. No one cares about acting skill. All that matters is that the star actress is hot." The woman swiped an arm in Falcon's direction. He vaulted at the impostor, downshifting to the Falcon Kick. She didn't rate a punch. Black lances of solid shadow erupted from the darkness nuzzling at her back. One of the spearheads hooked into the meat of Falcon's abdomen mid-flight. The impact punched the breath from his lungs. From the cold, cold point, he dangled in the air.

The pretend-Jody shimmered and transformed into a pale woman wearing a black corset, stockings and heels, and little else. Black bat wings unfolded from between her shoulder blades. "I'll have you know, I did study Jody. She's a changed woman these days. You'd hardly recognize her." She followed up these words with peals of chilly laughter.

Falcon inspected the damage. His midriff felt frozen solid. The spear hadn't sunk in deep. The crash-proof pilot suit, the best money could buy, had saved his life again. But if he didn't get unstuck soon, then gravity would push the point further in. The she-demon laughed harder to see her catch squirm on the hook.

Falcon grunted, then flexed his abs until the spear tip broke off inside him. He landed on his feet, then flexed a different set of core muscles to eject the spike. She stopped laughing. The suit closed over the wound, halting the bleed out.

"Takes more than a pointy stick to see me over the finish line. What's your name?"

She fluttered her eyelashes, fingering a frilly choker around her throat. "I am known to most as the Succubus. Only those who have the honor of feeding me their life's essence receive the pleasure of knowing my true name. There is no heart I cannot touch, captain." Her hands skittered like spiders over her white breasts. She lifted them in shameless offering.

While they talked, the crawling shadows had worked their way behind him. Rather than strike, they rose in thick bars, caging him in the private seating box with the she-devil.

"And there is no limit to how long I can hold you prisoner. It may take hours, or years, but eventually your desire for me will eat away your dignity, your heart, your mind. And then you will crawl to me, begging for release!" She laughed—the sound had become beautiful and terrible like shattering crystal.

Somewhere, in the back of his lust hazed mind, Falcon heard the smooth stone voice of Alucard deliver one of many cautions shared in the modest basement apartment.

" _Beware the succubus. Demons disguised as beautiful women, they will drain your life force away, using their amorous allure to bait the trap."_

_"So… like a sexy vampire, then?"_

_Alucard sighed. "I suppose you might consider them such, if you must. Reject their advances, and they will reveal their true nature and become vulnerable."_

_"Sexpire."_

_"Captain,_ please _."_

Falcon snapped back into the present. Inspiration was his.

"Give you what you want, now or later. Those my choices?" he asked.

"Yes." Succubus licked her rouged lips, the only spot of color on her.

Falcon unsealed the fly of his race pants. "Then let's party." He reached into the open fly and whipped out his twitching cock. The Succubus opened her mouth, inhaled a shivering breath.

"C'mon!" Falcon growled huskily.

Succubus charged into his open arms and they went down before the throne, writhing in sensual contest.

For all her delicate features, up close Falcon could see within Succubus a glacial strength fit to grind away the hardest stone. She could take what he had to deliver, forget the foreplay.

He slammed home. Succubus cooed with delight. The trap of her body bit down tight around him. A gasp escaped from between his gritted teeth. Exquisite. Against fierce resistance, he pulled almost all the way out, then thrust, accelerating the pace. A Falcon must be swift. Their moist bodies clapped together to a manic beat.

Succubus fucked his cock, not him. As she used him, Falcon experienced all the unclean, greasy delight of breaking promises you never wanted to keep when you made them, of spitting brutal truths into the faces of dear friends which afterwards can never be called back. Her appreciation was like the shameful relief that washes over you as you stand by safe and whole while another is beaten and manhandled into the darkness for a crime you committed.

The squelch of well lubricated flesh beaten like a drum accompanied every penetration. Falcon pulled his waist in tight, grinding his crotch into hers. She was panting quietly, a blush deepening on her white cheeks. Falcon buried his face in her shaking ivory breasts. He nibbled on her dark nipples until she cried out his name.

Life sucked away through his piss slit, as promised, but the silken friction of Succubus coaxed out more than vital energy. A little more debased with every kiss, she drank his self-worth. Memories, of Alucard, of his early childhood, of his hunts and defeats, her unholy cooch tugged them from his mind.

Captain Falcon tapped into the Falcon's energy. For while he was mortal and finite, the Power of the Falcon was eternity itself. He dug deep and gave generously. Her reaction was instantaneous.

"Oh! If I keep eating this well, I'll burst!" Succubus sounded overjoyed, but a ragged edge of worry marred her voice. She might have told him to stop, yet she kept bucking up into him, a glutton at feast. She did not push him away.

"You want to drink up my life force?" he asked her.

"Yes. Yes!" She squeezed her eyes shut, head turned to the side.

“Then bottoms up because this is the last call!” Erupting into flames, he pounded her with abandon, balls slapping her convulsing asshole. Somewhere, a mighty raptor keened into the starwind, shivering the planets and muddling the nebulae into smears of light.

Falcon threw back his head and roared. "Yes!"


	12. Time For Kill

The throne room stood vacant of all but the dust, silvered by the light of the moon falling from shattered windows. Alucard paced the rotted carpet, feeling foolish. A lonely wind sighed through the open door.

Back down the stairs he trudged. Descending through the clock tower, through the high halls, he arrived in the castle's center.

In this iteration of Castlevania, the center was no longer sealed or concealed between levels. It was typically a cramped, echoing space, its stale air heavy with the dread auras of sleeping evils immortal and vastly older than the castle itself. A space far too close to dimensions whose full opening would usher in an epoch of unthinkable horror.

Alucard arrived to find the center had expanded into a pillared hall. As of old, sinister runes, sigils of unsleeping eyes, pictogram sagas of demonic history, and geometric diagrams which had not originated in this dimension engraved over every surface.

He also found the center cluttered with construction supplies—palettes of spare bricks and plaster and coils of wiring and all the bric-a-brac of a major renovations project.

Many centuries ago, castle center had been dedicated to the gnostic engine which had allowed Castlevania to change location without shifting a single stone. Its gears and drives had been custom built by Dracula himself, inspired by the designs of Archimedes and other philosophers whose names were lost to the ages. Pythagoras' lost theorems contributed to the engine's navigation programming while Adamic sorcery controlled steering. Its fuel was the energy culled from the limitless pool of empty space which lurked between all atoms. The great engine had been destroyed during the 15th century campaign by Sypha Belnades, the mage companion of Trevor Belmont. Her efforts to override the control spells overheated the engine to destruction. Perhaps the most tragic example of art and beauty lost to war.

Looking about at the gleaming new pipes and snaking bundles of cable strewn about, Alucard deduced his father had at last restored the engine. Or installed its mundane equivalent.

Here as well was the Lord of the Night, wandering a sleek technological labyrinth of enormous piston chambers and antimatter drives, nestled into a non-euclidean farrago along with the unholy shrines and ancient monoliths. Beside him waddled Don Genie, looking extremely unwell—bloodless and so stiff the big man could not bend his body. Trailing behind them, the praying mantis outlines of two space pirates.

Dracula carried a clipboard, checking gauges and digital meters, scribbling notes with a bemused smirk on his pale lips. As Alucard approached, the pirates backed into the shadows and vanished. Don Genie went down on all fours and skittered up a column backwards with cockroach agility, his middle still stiff as the proverbial board.

"Galamoth didn't hold you up for long. How's the tireless crusade for purity and righteousness going, son?" asked the Lord of the Night without looking up from his work.

"I received reports of you prowling about AV-1 and Keerlon Corporation. You were commissioning all this."

"Among other things, yes. I found the black market to be most helpful for these installations. Space pirates in particular had a treasure house of rare stock the Federation disdained to touch, and too expensive for most criminals in the market for their wares." Dracula rapped a knuckle against a strange contraption which gonged musically to his touch—its fluted case cast from a green metal of similar luster to gold. Strange ridges and bulges in its form suggested watchful eyes housed in a severe raptor face. "This piece is Chozoic, if you can believe it."

Alucard shook his head. "A few days ago you wouldn't have known the Chozo from canaries. What is this all about, father?"

Dracula turned to face him, eyebrows raised. "Oh ho! You once more call me father. Seeking to reestablish the familial bond? Or is this a mentalist trick picked up from your Federation trainers? In any case, you won't pry any secrets out of me I'm not prepared to give away." He tsk-tsked. "You used to be without guile. What happened to that boy?" He snapped his fingers. "Ah yes, you're changing to adapt to this age after all. The immutable Alucard is at last thawing out."

"Will you be serious."

Dracula drew himself up high, impossibly tall, and puffed out his chest.

"Deathly serious, son. This, all this," he swept claws over the castle center and its cybernetic implants. "A new life and a new place to live it, far from the seething flood of humanity. As I change, so too must Castlevania evolve. These chrome baubles have been installed to aid in that transition."

Alucard hissed, angered by Dracula's dissembling. "This is all a ruse. I know about the abductions and secret murders. I know you dispatched Goroh and his men. As well you consort with criminal elements. Don Genie's presence here testifies that you're converting others to vampires, and I can only guess how many you've slaughtered to seize the reins of that quintillionarie's power. Days ago, in the library, you forswore your war against humanity. You have broken that oath and lied to me."

"When have I ever lied, son? When have I ever needed to?"

"Explain, then." Alucard gestured to the mess. "Could it be that even as you forsake the old war, you prepare for a new one?"

"I swore to put aside my vendetta against humans, which I have done. I made no promises to surrender my right to self-defense or forgo bringing humans into the blood in pursuit of my own goals. Humanity certainly does not live up to your standards, and it's hardly fair that you should hold me to them."

"If your commitment to the life of a peaceful hermit can be credited, then why upraise Castlevania instead of laying it down to a final rest?"

"What? Slay my constant companion through the aeons? I would no sooner retire Castlevania than a man put down his beloved dog in the prime of its health. It's not just me who resurrects every century. When the castle comes alive, so does the Creature, and Medusa, and all the rest. Castlevania is a conservatory as much as it is our home. Many of it's inhabitants no longer exist in the wild. Where would they go, what would happen to them if Castlevania were to vanish? Disappear into eternal darkness, like a nightmare forgotten upon waking with only an orphaned fear left behind to mark its passing."

Dracula reached out to caress a obelisk of marbled black stone. The stonework of Castlevania shivered under his touch. "Together, my castle and I, we shall embark on a grand new adventure."

New, new, new! How the decrepit monster babbled on so. This fable of turning over a new leaf when it was a thousand years too late made Alucard want to whip out his sword and slice the old man clean through the neck. Could an immortal grow senile? What manner of creature was this that had replaced the honest monster with a gurning, insipid mascot waltzed out of an advertisement for healing crystal brain implants?

In a desperate bid to steer the runaway conversation back onto a productive track, Alucard dropped the sole bit of intel which might shock Dracula out of his oratorical meanderings.

"You've been researching Dominus," he said. "I would know your plans for that dread rune."

Dracula arched an eyebrow, the look on his face saying that he saw the awkward attempt to change the subject and found it pitiful.

"Ah, been snooping about, haven't we. You know, Dominus was so named by its authors in the Order of Ecclesia because it was intended to overmaster the Master of Masters—Death, and force him to slay the deathless. Which is me. A rune to wield mortality with more precision than any sword or bomb. In the interests of self-preservation, I've been making an intense study of the magic lately."

"It is a spell made for killing, not defense. Who is it you wish to kill?"

"No one! For mere curiosity's sake, Dominus has been a fascinating and rewarding subject to study. In breaking the rune down to its most elementary formulas, I have discovered something astonishing."

Dracula paused. Impatient, Alucard fed him the desired prompt. "And what revelation did you uncover?"

"Dominus is designed to annihilate one life. This action is powered at the expense of another life. Even a paltry mortal soul satisfies the cost for the destruction of a powerful, immortal soul. This potential for massively unequal exchange is the core mechanic of Dominus. But the processes, the foundational formulas of the spell work the same in reverse. What can be taken away—"

A woman's wail cut across Dracula's words. "Noooo. Too much!"

Succubus tore through the room, bloated and mad with a glut of stolen life. Singing light pored from her eyes and mouth and nostrils. She noticed her lord and his son not at all, and flew past them down a side corridor, vomiting pure life energy the whole while.

Falcon sauntered in, zipping up his fly. "Damn. For someone so experienced, she didn't last long." He stopped short, noticing he was not alone. "Hey, Al. How you holdin' up?" He looked Dracula up and down. "How's your groin doin'?"

"Erm, yes, well-" Alucard was ignored, which was just as well for he was struck with a total loss of words. Captain Falcon was alive, and he and Dracula had already met? Succubus, groins... So many questions demanding to be asked all at once.

Dracula rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine. I'm undead, Falcon. It all regenerates. What have you done to my Succubus?"

Falcon watched him roll on, shameless. "Tell you what I haven't done—her ass. She tapped out before I had my chance."

Torches and braziers dimmed. Carven stones cracked, spitting grit. Devils, leering from the shadows of the ceiling arches like heckling critics, cringed in retreat. Falcon's indelicate bon mot shocked Alucard to stillness. But that was nothing compared to the nexus of absolute cold which enveloped his father.

And then Dracula bent double. He howled with laughter. Echoing in every guffaw a chorus of mutilated voices, shrieking in torment.

The Lord of Darkness slapped his knee. "HA! I like this one more every time we meet. Not at all too righteous to shit. The Belmonts were always such a po faced lot. You've done well this time, boy."

Dracula shared a suggestive wink with his son, addressing Falcon. "I admit, I hadn't expected you to escape Succubus' charms. No one has satisfied her before."

In a crackle of bone and cartilage, Falcon stretched his neck. Cracking his knuckles, he took a step towards Dracula. "Don't cozen to me, creep. I only want to know one thing. Where's Jody?"

Dracula yawned. "Ho hum, now you sound like my Grand Inquisitor son." A skeleton wearing a yellow hard hat carried away his clipboard and work coat. Another skeleton tottered forward bearing Dracula's customary evening coat and cape. The garments took flight and donned themselves over his outstretched arms and neck. "It's only fair to warn you. Our skirmish in the parking bunker was play fighting. Challenge me again and you'll emerge from the melee a steaming pile of ground meat."

Alucard had just then remembered what words were, and how they might be used to communicate meaning. Through a dry throat he struggled to warn Falcon against provoking his father further. His hoarse squeaks were ignored, for the bounty hunter had momentum and would not slow until he won or crashed.

"I get it. You're scared," said Falcon. "Hand over Jody and I won't hurt you. Much."

"Was that the Federation agent I took earlier this week?" Dracula stroked his mustache. "Yes, a strong woman. It would have to be her." His black eyes slid back to Falcon. "Is she important to you?"

"Is your ability to suck blood from necks instead of an IV bag important to you?" asked Falcon.

A glint of red light stole into the wet stone stare of Dracula. "An honest question! It deserves an honest answer."

He raised one arm. A pillar of unholy flame erupted from beneath Falcon's feet. The carpet peeled away in scorched curls. Will-o'-wisps broke away from the column, forming ethereal faces whose expressions contorted in deranged triumph or twisted in unquenchable agony before deforming and dissipating on the infernal breeze.

"Father, you once again go too far! Murdering Falcon when he sought to rescue a dear friend and end this pointless depredation of his fellow racers. Does this too count as 'self-defense?'" Alucard crouched and ripped sword from scabbard.

Dracula shrugged. "Have you forgotten so soon? Perhaps I dealt your skull too harsh a blow that night in the park. Your ban from this house is still in effect. If you don't want your friends set aflame, please keep out."

Falcon stepped from the pulsating gout of demonic fire. He snorted smoke and leveled a gloved finger at the Lord of Darkness. "Last time I ask nice. Where's Jody?"

Dracula spoke words of power in a language dead to all memory save that which belonged to those who inhabited the Abyss. The words wrote themselves on the air, and within their circle the fabric of reality curdled and tore as the quantum became the macro. Out from Nothing uncoiled an Elderling, the wrong jointed flexing of its many claw stalks revolting to behold, its beaked visages unspeakable.

Fire engulfed Falcon once more, but this time the conflagration was his own. This was the Falcon Force of legend. Much had Alucard read of its nature, but in witnessing its manifestation firsthand he found himself smitten.

Its corona settled over the man like a mantel of star's breath. Alucard breathed deep of its smokes. Scents of pepper and kingsfoil and old leather, and beneath those something alien—like nothing encountered in his long life—yet the sleeping subconscious provided its own label which resounded with truth. Victory. The power which indwelt Captain Falcon smelled like inexorable, impatient victory.

The Elderling sucked back its feelers from the approaching glow of the Falcon. It looked to Dracula, back to Falcon, then once more to its summoner. Then it turned tail and fled back through the tear, plastering over the hole behind it with space and time.

"Sic cannon fodder on us all day, but we're not leaving without Jody. Give her back now and you can keep some of your teeth."

A shudder rippled over his father's body. A tearing intake of breath, fangs bared and protruding like a viper stomped by a careless boot, in that first instant of pain and surprise before the biting fury takes hold. Finally, Dracula smiled. It was not a human smile. If a wolf could smile, it would not be half as feral or hungry as this. It frightened Alucard more than a snarling charge.

In a low, crawling voice, Dracula spoke, as if to himself but loud enough for all to hear. "I see I was hasty in selecting my racing instructors. Captain, how would you like to earn more money than the entire Federation Council combined?"

"I'd rather be rich in friends," said Falcon. "For a down payment, I'll accept one Jody Summer."

Falcon resumed his stroll towards Dracula, forcing Alucard to scramble to catch up. Locking steps with the bounty hunter, Alucard eyed all corners for the ambush he felt was inevitable. The power of the Falcon was a warm electricity caressing the right half of his body.

Dracula gave not one inch of ground. He watched them approach, eyes radiating a crimson glare that would dry blood to powder in the veins of an ordinary man. Alucard kept a firm grip on his sword. Father's next attack would lash out at light-speed.

Instead, it was a languid raising of one hand, palm out, fingers clawed. Dracula turned his wrist ninety degrees.

Falcon put up his fists and struck a boxer's stance, pace quickening. Alucard broke away, preparing to double-jump and swoop down from above, blade dancing.

He tasted a bitter exhilaration, that this go-around of perpetual family drama, and all the disgrace and pain that accompanied it, had once again reached its inevitable conclusion—the customary flurry of climatic violence. Afterwards, he would return to the refuge of slumber for another century, his only company the wan, tormenting hope that his father's next return might reach a happier resolution.

Falcon reared his arm back, ready to strike. "Time's up, deadbeat daddy. I don't do this for just anyone, but you... You rate this, I think."

"Jay, please," said a woman's voice from behind Dracula. She stepped out from his shadow. Tall, athletic, with sad green eyes that belied the sadistic smile stretched open over her fangs. Jody Summer. Alucard was familiar with her image from dossiers and videos. "All this adolescent sword waving when we could be racing! Are we F-Zero pilots or third-rate street cutters?"

"Yes, my good captain. Let's listen to what Jody has to say," said Dracula. His arm and hand remained fixed in position. "If you're really her friend, you'll hear her out."

Alucard looked to his ally and confirmed his worst fears. The heat of combat had blown out of Captain Falcon on the back of a bleak ice wind. The pilot stood pale and frozen, lips parted, fist lowered to his side. Falcon was going to listen. A swift, sure end to the nightmare fled from their grasp.

Jody licked her lips, further showing off her new fangs. A red light flashed in her eyes, then faded as she spoke. "It's simple, Falcon. Settle it with a race."

"This isn't you. He's infected you with neuro-hijackers. Injected memories," muttered Falcon.

Alucard gripped his meaty shoulder. "No, friend. It's worse. He has nearly finished turning her into one of my cursed race."

In a blur of blue and red, Falcon exploded into a headlong charge. Two fingers of Dracula's outstretched hand contorted to assume a new configuration. Jody screamed and fell. She writhed over the stones while black clouds swarmed visibly under her skin, raising and distorting the flesh. Alucard winced in sympathy.

"By all means, rush me," said Dracula. "Before you can pummel me into submission the curse will be completed and she'll be worse than dead. Eternal agony is at my command."

Falcon halted a mere two meters from Dracula. He spoke through gritted teeth. "Make it a duel or a race. Either way, I'm going to destroy you."

"That's the spirit! I'd hate for you to take it easy on me just because it's my maiden Grad Prix. A simple wager then. Defeat me in the opening race, Mute City circuit, and I will return Jody to you, alive and unharmed, her mediocre humanity restored. Lose, and she remains my thrall forever."

"The hell I'm going to trust a creep like you!" Falcon chopped the air in a gesture of denial. A nearby pillar exploded.

"Tell him, son."

Falcon looked to Alucard, who looked to the ground in shared shame. "He will keep his word. It's during the race he'll attempt cheating his way to victory, for he has not promised to run it fair and square."

"I rather think of it as my being creatively competitive," said Dracula. "And I must warn you. My new car has been completed, tested, and blooded. I believe my Black Sun is superior to your Blue Falcon."

"That's a line I've heard a thousand times. Talk is cheap, Drac," growled Falcon.

"How right you are," said Dracula, wrapping up inside his cape. "Dear, press the button."

A suddenly chipper Jody sprang to her feet. She high jumped, flipping mid-air and falling to the ceiling. Upside down, she walked over arch and vault to a red button installed in the middle of a mosaic depicting devils sodomizing the damned. She stomped the button.

Beside Dracula a pedestal of carven stone rose from the floor. It projected a hologrammatic icosahedron in green light. The hologram's faces turned red or gold as he manipulated the platonic 'solid' with the tips of his claws.

"Time we were going. We all have much to do, I'm sure. Preparing for the Grand Prix should be your top priority. Work hard. Quarter will be neither expected nor given." Dracula began to hum, no longer looking at the two intruders, perhaps having dismissed them from his thoughts as well as his home. A ringing of steel stilled his throat.

Alucard stepped forward, a summoning card flicking between his fingers. The sword familiar manifested over his left shoulder, a large spectral blade which hovered with mute menace. "You have struck a deal with Falcon, but you have yet to reckon with me."

Dracula shrugged. "I assumed you were to train alongside your champion in the art of F-Zero. Help him win back his friend." A pained sigh. "Suppose it was too much to hope you'd stumbled into making a life for yourself."

Alucard bared his fangs. "I can have no life while you stalk the worlds of men. I will see you fall this night." Sword in low guard, he approached Dracula in challenge.

"You are wrong, Adrian. But I thought you might persist." Dracula waved his hand and two burly figures appeared in pentagram circles of green ghostlight. "I want you to meet my instructors. They have taught me much of the craft of F-Zero racing. I hope they school you as well as they have educated me."

Samurai Goroh and Blood Falcon stepped forward from the fading summoning circles. Their eyes glowed red, tongues flicking over their newly grown fangs. Alucard recognized Blood from his extensive Federation Police record, glossed over while researching the man he'd been cloned from.

"Well, well, this is almost too perfect," said Blood Falcon. "A perfect opportunity to settle accounts outstanding, once and for all."

A wide grin spread over Samurai Goroh's bulldog face. "Just so. And to think, I was just saying how nice it'd be to have our old friend the captain around to try out these new powers on. And here you are, standing beside the man who owes me for five lives. Ready to have your head kicked in, old rival of mine?" He pulled a scabbard from his sash and drew from it a katana. Its blade was a ray of starless night and as long as Goroh was tall. An aura emanated from that sword, a palpable intent to kill. "The Muramasa, blade of black. A gift from my new master."

"Time was," Captain Falcon said, shifting into a fighting stance, "When you'd choose death before calling any man your master. I guess in the end, you've settled for both."

"Ooo. Hard words from a soft old man." Blood Falcon smacked a fist into his open palm. "Don't worry. I don't need no fancy new toys. I'll do for you with my own two hands, just the way you like it." He jerked his head at Goroh, the signal to move forward. "You go first."

"Why am I going first? You're the one who wants to fight hand-to-hand," said Goroh. His expression turned petulant. The way his vampire fangs hung over his frowning bottom lip was almost comical.

"I've seen how you swing that knife around, flailing like a frightened girl trying to swat a spider. You go in first so I can stay out of your range. Stick to the poof over there," he nodded to Alucard. "He looks more your speed." Then he turned to Falcon, the triangular abstracts of eyes on his visor narrowing their angles. "The geezer is all mine." He licked his lips with a freakishly long, thick tongue. "Ready for a bad death, friendo?"

"Has someone called my name?" asked a dry, rustling parchment voice. From a seething darkness, like an overturned vat of boiling hair, emerged Death, scythe in hand. He grinned. But then, a skull is always grinning.

Beside the mortifying angel, a snake's nest of slithering bandages converged, bundling themselves into the shape of a man eight feet tall. The arms flexed stiffly, shedding whorls of dust. Akmodan the Second, the mummified emperor of Stygia, had come to fight alongside his fellow tenant. Alucard whispered their names to Falcon.

"Childhood friends of yours?" he asked.

"Closer to eccentric uncles, really. We never got on."

"Begging your pardon, Alucard," said Dracula. "While I have moved on, a few of my vassals hold onto old grudges, as you have. They hardly need an introduction."

Dracula tapped a rapid sequence of commands into the twenty-sided hologram, each entry accompanied by an electronic bleat. A crimson glow like steam rose from the machines around them. "Castlevania, it is time for you to sleep once more."

"No!" Alucard shouted, lunging forward. Too late.

Dracula laughed with cold mockery, his shape melting away to take the form of a giant bat. The cape stretched wide to become enormous wings, so with a few quick beats he was gliding between the columns. Jody dropped from the ceiling, landing on his back. She rode the bat as they shot through a high window, bursting the stained glass pane. Together they soared, cackling, into a night tinged gray with the coming dawn.

* * *

Falcon stared out the shattered window and wondered if there was a genome artisan talented enough to fix him up with the power to transform into a winged monster that fast, then change back. Probably not.

Being able to fly on a whim without the blood drinking and bad fashion would be pretty rad. The Falcon's power only lent him wings on occasions when it knew the need was urgent. Use that level of power for longer than a minute and it would start burning weeks off his life.

Over the last couple of hours he'd come to doubt Alucard's explanations less. The whole spiritual kick. Curses and ghosts and devils and the whole psycho cavalcade he'd witnessed this night. All that shit. Forces beyond Federation approved physics gestalts. Sure. Bow to the expert opinion here. He needed Alucard more than ever. The bastard had Jody. Worse than holding the body hostage, the sick monkey had her brain on a leash. This would not stand.

The floor seemed to agree. It began to tango out from beneath his feet. Castlevania shifted its foundations. A hollow booming resounded from somewhere far below. The floor bucked and swayed. It took all of Alucard's feline poise not to fall on his face.

Blood Falcon and the monster mash crew were bearing down. Fortunately, the demipire had his head back in the race.

"What's going on? What's he mean by 'sleep?'" asked Falcon.

"The castle is crumbling in on itself. It's going back into hibernation. We have minutes at best before we fall apart with it," said Alucard.

"Guess we'd better work fast," Captain Falcon snarled.

"With my aid we shall conclude this all the faster," said Alucard, standing beside him against the crowd. He shapeshifted into a large bat, bigger than any natural species, yet somewhat smaller than his pop's bat mode. Well, it was an unnecessary meanness judging a man on the size of his bat.

The sentient heap of bandages reached them first, several yellowed wrappings tangling Alucard's wings and lassoing him out of the air before he could gain height.

A battering ram slammed Falcon in the spine before he could step in to help, toppling him heels over head. "Ah ah, captain. Priorities!" said Blood Falcon.

Falcon rolled sideways an instant before Blood's platinum boot stomped his skull, shattering instead the basalt floor tile beneath it. A crimson glow surrounded the clone. The knockoff had gone and ginned himself up with a new superpower.

Blood raised a leg for another stomp. Falcon grabbed his boot. The Fire of the Falcon ran up Blood's trousers, consuming the vampiric aura like ordinary flames sucking up gas fumes. Thrashing, Blood hissed, swatting at an engulfing blaze that would not go out. Falcon rose, still holding the clone by the ankle. A twist of the wrist and he sent Blood flying into Samurai Goroh, who had been rushing in, Muramasa raised overhead for a kill chop. They went down together in a tangled heap.

Falcon turned about to find his partner, still in bat form, juking and jiving through a vortex of handheld weedcutters controlled remotely by a floating skeleton wearing a dirty blanket. Visor zooming in for a closer look, Falcon was struck by recognition. The qualifiers, on Death Wind. Yeah, this was the same spook who'd done in Mighty Gazelle. Akmodan blundered into the duel. The heat-seeking wraps he floated out to ensnare Alucard got snipped by the flying gardening tools.

Alucard rocketed straight up, lines blurring as he returned to human form, sword flashing white in his hands. The bone ghost saw him coming and flickered out of existence, materializing behind the mummy. Goroh and Blood Falcon were back on their feet and closing in from opposite directions.

The floor pitched and yawed. Castlevania had played yet another trick on them. This chamber of machinery and pillars had stood inside a larger keep. The collapse had peeled away much of the surrounding structure, leaving them in a single room poised on a eroded spire of masonry which might come loose from the castle superstructure at any second. If a balance was not maintained, the chamber was in danger of toppling over.

Everything began leaning to the west. Man and monster alike scrambled to the east side, the fight momentarily forgotten as they raced to counterbalance the seesawing room. Death floated along behind them, cordially complimenting everyone on their teamwork. When the floor had mostly leveled out they sought out the center of balance to continue the fight, Death phasing his head through the floor to check their positioning and provide direction. Distantly, they heard the heavy tumble of huge stone blocks falling, striking others loose on their way down. The crash and roar of avalanching roof tiles and splintering lumber was like a chant of death, singing of the destruction which would soon be on them.

The floor almost still, each side of the conflict looked to one another. Remembering the business at hand, the group sprang apart. The monsters, Goroh, and Blood Falcon spread out to surround Falcon and Alucard, leering, weapons gleaming. Slowly, with a hideous grinding that vibrated in his molars, Falcon felt, then saw the room begin to tilt to the east. Damn it all, the structure was unbalanced again. Some weight was needed in the opposite corner.

Falcon put his fists up and his back against Alucard's. "We can beat these punks, but they only need to hold us here until the roof falls in on our heads."

"Switch opponents?" Alucard whispered to him. "Let's… show them something new."

"Got it." Falcon back flipped over Alucard and landed a flaming kick into Akmodan's chest. Mr. Bandages swayed back. A few grotty streamers uncoiled from his arms and lashed out at Falcon like White Land blood worms. One coil managed to snare his right wrist. Even through the racing suit he felt a cold burning. Falcon let the power inside run free. The Falcon's Flame burned the bandage away, yet the numbing chill lingered.

Falcon took a running jump off the mummy's broad chest, sprinting hell for leather to the opposite corner, finding the going more difficult as the run became a hike uphill. At least Akmoden lumbered in pursuit, helping to redistribute the weight.

Death swooped down from behind a column thrumming with strange machinery. He heaved his scythe back for an epic strike. "You're much too nimble for poor old Akmoden. Let's even the odds." Death cackled. Falcon ducked the sickle moon blade which would have sliced him in two. He pounced and snatched up Death by the front of his robes. The floating ghost was grounded by the mortal weighing him down, for while man cannot escape Death, he can certainly pursue and seize the Reaper in his own hands. Death flailed and shrieked. "The gall! Let go or I'll kill you thrice!"

Falcon pulled Death close until they were face-to-skull. He stared into those empty eye sockets, where no light reached. "What makes you think it'll be any different this time?" Falcon asked.

"What?" The snide amusement was gone from the Grim Reaper's voice. "What are you babbling about? Unhand me!"

"You don't recognize me. You ought to. I know I've stared you down countless times before. On the race track, and off it. There's something I've always wanted to say to you." Falcon hacked up some mucus and spat into Death's eye socket.

"Bastard!" shrieked Death. Falcon head butted his skull above the nose hole with the falcon crest of his helmet. He whipped his neck back and let Death have another crack, and another, until the wraith vanished from his fists.

The floor beneath his feet took on a noticeable grade. Alucard and the others locked in their free roving brawl had drifted closer, providing no counterbalance to the tottering chamber.

Akmoden lurched down the incline at Falcon, suddenly fast. Several more bandages snaked out and coiled around his right arm, filling it with deadening cold. Falcon rammed the heel of his boot through the mummy's knee, snapping it backwards. A dusty splinter of bone stuck out from the wrappings. There was no blood. Akmoden moaned softly and sank to the floor.

"Hold that thought. Got to cover my friend's back." Tied to the mummy by wrappings snarled around his arm, Falcon gritted his teeth and dragged Akmoden the Second uphill, towards the action.

Alucard was holding off Goroh's frenzied sword thrashings with contemptuous ease. "I'm cutting what I'm owed out of your hide, you swine!" Goroh shifted gears, swinging faster and smarter. He locked swords with Alucard, using the outer third of his blade where leverage was weakest. This allowed him to wind the Muramasa out of the lock and snipe past Alucard's guard. After a flurry of strikes, Alucard danced back, one arm gashed and bleeding. Goroh increased the pressure. For having a stocky build, Goroh had always been deceptively nimble on his toes. Goroh kept darting in, trying to catch Alucard from the side. "This is for Sasuke, and Hakuun, and Tsukikage. And Genzai!" All the while he pushed Alucard back into Blood Falcon, who had crept up into his blind spot, waiting for the time to strike.

"Pay attention when you're fighting me," Captain Falcon shouted. He charged Blood Falcon, ripping free from Akmoden's wrappings. The bootleg stopped short and fired up his own inferior version of the Falcon Punch. Rather than fire, the falcon which rode his fist shaped itself from a welter of animated blood. Captain Falcon dropped into a slide, forcing Blood Falcon to back flip out of leg sweep range. Captain Falcon was ready for the dodge and shot up from the ground, his knee extended. The Knee, as this move was called in pit fighting houses throughout the galaxy, took Blood Falcon just below the rib cage. The fake collapsed to his knees, trying not the vomit. Captain Falcon gave him a taste of the top of his boot. Blood Falcon tottered backwards, blood pouring from his crushed mouth.

Just when balance had been restored, a quarter of the room broke off in a great cracking of stressed stone. The southwest corner was gone, opening a long drop behind the stumbling clone. This provided an excellent open air view of what the outer reaches of Castlevania were doing. Walls folded up and towers sank. Iron work and masonry shuffling neatly into ever smaller stacks. The castle was packing itself up.

Blood Falcon ground to a halt, flames shooting up from his boot soles, just in time to pitch away from the edge. He sank to his knees, trying to speak through a smashed up mouth. Nothing came out except bubbles of blood. Falcon gathered the old power into his fist and drew back. Something stopped him. He looked back upon his fingers, curled under the thumb. Then he looked at the shuddering wreck of his clone. Disgust, more than pity, filled Falcon.

"You still don't rate it."

"You always…" the clone muttered through the gore. "You always hated… Forever younger… Better than you."

Captain Falcon put his arm down, turned to walk away. Hesitated. The man was a gross mockery of his life and skill. Leaving the job undone—that was a Blood Falcon move.

"On second thought. You may be a stolen part of me, but you're still something of me." He turned back around. Blood Falcon was halfway through lifting a pistol. He stared at Falcon with wide white eyes showing through the helmet's shattered visor. The face beneath had regenerated to whole. His nostrils flared rapidly. Filled with hate, filled with fear, he knew this was the end.

As the unbalanced room began its fatal slide off the tip of its dissolving spire, Falcon closed the distance. He slapped the pistol away with the numb right hand and swept his left arm back for the punch. A close kept secret of Captain Falcon's was that he could punch just as well with either arm.

"Take it as a compliment," said Captain Falcon. Through time and space he threw the punch, the power of the Falcon riding shotgun. "Falcon… Flick!" The fist stopped short of Blood's nose. Index and middle fingers snapped off the thumb and flicked the clone's nose.

Blood Falcon's head disintegrated into a pink mist. His corpse flopped backwards, falling in a steep parabola down to the night dark ruin. Two pearly fangs clinked onto the rumbling floor, rolling back to the far wall which was fast becoming the floor.

He had hated Blood. Even so, with his destruction, another part of his past was gone, forever.

Hewn stones were falling from the ceiling. They had seconds at most. A short whistle and the twitch of his right eyelid entered the return command for the Falcon Flyer through his helmet's computer. The room canted steeply enough that walking had become impossible. The grating roar of stone over stone seemed to come from everywhere. The shuddering of the sliding room blurred his vision, which the visor corrected for. He had time to grab the edge of the broken floor so that he wouldn't go sliding away like the still struggling mummy.

The vampires were still dueling, untouched by gravity, able to stand on the vertical floor as if it were still upright. Goroh had scored a few more bloody cuts on Alucard. He bulled in for the kill. Alucard vanished and reappeared behind Goroh. The bandit king somehow expected this, spinning in a vicious 360 chop with enough muscle behind it to cleave spine. Alucard had come out of his teleport on his knees. The Muramasa whistled over his silken head. He rammed his longsword up through Goroh's exposed ribs, taking him through the heart. Goroh writhed on the blade, expression unreadable.

"That— _hrrnn_. Was a good one," whispered Goroh. The bandit king burst into flames and shriveled to a blacked cinder of his former self.

"Hey!" Falcon leveled a judging finger at Alucard as he dangled. "You stole my kill." If Blood had warranted a touch of the blues, then the loss of Goroh inspired a pang of genuine grief. Falcon would miss racing against the bandit.

Alucard shrugged. "It was my commission which delivered Goroh to this sad fate. Thus the responsibility for bringing the matter to a close fell to me."

He transformed into the outsized bat once again and caught Falcon in his claws. Flapping hard while supporting Falcon's weight, it was all he could do to hover in place as the room slid past, then dropped away to leave them dangling in the night sky. A deafening crash and an updraft of dust clouds overtook them. Below, Castlevania continued to fold up into itself, leaving behind a churned ruin of mud and sod where a park had once been. Closer to where they could land, a churning cauldron of shifting stones lingered that would see them ground to meal and entombed in seconds, even if they survived the fall.

Alucard somehow summoned a regular-sized magical bat buddy to help him bear Falcon, but the vampire's tired wings beat slower and slower. Falcon could glimpse Alucard through a shimmering sheen of rainbow light, his pale face creased with exertion as the magic ran low and the bat transformation began to reform into the human shape. Then the spell snapped and they were twirling in free fall.

Falcon scooped up Alucard and held him close. He struggled to manifest the wings, but something blocked the Falcon's power, something cold and murky haunting his right arm. A curse, from that damn mummy!

The Falcon Flyer finished its descent from high orbit, hovering upside down to catch them through the opened bay doors. It was all Falcon could do to slow their momentum with a last second Falcon Kick. They smacked then bounced off of the emergency crash cushions the ship's A.I. had thoughtfully set out for them. Hurting only in his everything, Falcon deemed it time to return to his abandoned nap.


	13. The Silence of Daylight

Home to Port Town, racing against a sun struggling to clear the horizon. This time they rode in the Flyer's cockpit. In the confined space the tension was easy to sense. A weight of things which must be said hung heavy about them.

"I'm sorry I didn't listen more carefully to your briefing. Things might've gone smoother if I had," said Falcon.

Alucard slouched in the copilot's chair, cheek parked on fist as he watched the scenery rip past the side window. "An understatement of vast proportions." A long pause. "I'm sorry. That was unkind. The encounter with my father has unsettled me deeply. It wouldn't have made any difference if you had listened. If anything, you were made more unpredictable by ignorance. Father had prepared the way for us. Your improvisations carried the day."

"I was out of my element. Something new, difficult to account for," said Falcon. "I could tell by the way those monsters, the castle itself, reacted to me. That lent me an edge. Next time we face your dad, it'll be in my world. Your turn to play the agent of chaos."

"Next time? If you mean that wager you made with Dracula, I don't see how I'll be of much help. Nothing makes sense to me anymore. Perhaps he is right."

Falcon shook his head, even though Alucard wasn't watching. "Nope. This is your darkest hour. Right before you gain new insight crucial to the final showdown. You'll find a new way to victory, and I'll be there to help."

A disgusted sigh. Alucard turned then to glare at him. "Is that what you think life is, Falcon? A story?"

"Yes. Isn't yours?"

"Mortal, don't piss down my back and call it rain."

"Your father is right about one thing." Falcon caught Alucard's sour gaze and gave him a crooked grin. "It's about time you started a new chapter in life. You've been struck reading the same page for too long."

* * *

A few precious hours of sleep, and then the shutters snapped open at their programmed time and the noon sun ground its golden, poison knuckles into his eyes in that certain way it did when not enough time had passed between lie down and get up.

Falcon reclined on a firm futon, watching the sun stream in through the skylights. He never needed an alarm, and this day he would not be going back to sleep. Joining the pre-prix nerves were thoughts of Jody. A war had been declared, and no one else was here to fight it but him.

Before flying back to his Port Town eyrie, they'd made a quick search of the churned up city park. Where the castle had gone after finishing its collapse there had been no sign, except for a few furtive shadows scuttling off into the Old Quadrant. They had no way to trace them. Pursuit ran them into dead ends and vanished trails.

Home from the misadventure, with barely enough energy to clean his teeth, Falcon showed Alucard to the guest room and pointed the way to his modest library of three thousand books. Alucard expressed surprise that Falcon had known what a book was, much less read any. Falcon had been too sleepy to feel insulted. He collapsed alone in his bedroom, refusing to think what would happen later.

Now later was here. And he had… ideas.

Falcon stirred together a breakfast tailored for such 'mornings' and injected it into his bicep. He found Alucard in the lounge, watching a news stream, a book on the early history of spaceflight open on the sofa beside him. No bruise touched his face, either from a blow or under the eyes from lack of sleep. His silver hair was unruffled, perfect. He had helped himself to a pair of sweat pants and a F-Zero jersey. Even dressed for at-home comfiness, the half-vampire draped across the sofa with the immortal beauty of a marble statue sculpted to honor a long forgotten sex god. Alucard smelled of fabric refresher and nothing else.

Suddenly dying of thirst, Falcon returned to the kitchen and poured a juice. When he got back Dracula smiled from the holodisplay.

The Lord of Darkness stood on a stage for what looked like a press conference. There were usually several of the tiresome things before every Grad Prix. The Execution Project board would announce rules changes, new naming schemes for the Prix's cups, new tracks, and other less fun surprises.

Alucard's dad had poached himself a new collection of horrors. Senior members of the F-Zero Execution Project stood in neat ranks behind Dracula, all of them depraved monsters of capitalism whose plutocrat grandfathers had formed and funded the Project out of boredom, that the working poor might kill themselves for their amusement. The board exploited bureaucratic loopholes and cash hungry planetary governors through which they could force local planetary governments to foot the bill for new tracks and infrastructure maintenance. Falcon despised the breed every bit as much as he loved the sport.

A plastic-faced sociopath slimed his way up to the microphone drone cluster. "We are very excited to announce some exciting and profound changes to this year's Grand Prix. It's vital that this sport stay as unpredictable as any race. Boredom has no place in the World of F-Zero! We have the newest member of our committee to thank for ushering in these refreshing winds of change." He paused to indicate Dracula. "Mr. Tepes has been our inspiring muse, and we thank him especially for his sage guidance in drafting this latest round of amendments to the F-Zero Constitution. Without further preamble, I announce this year's theme: Return to the Old School! Like the F-Max races of yore, pilots will have zero liability for what happens to other pilots on the track. Weapon bans are lifted for anything legal within Mute City limits. Otherwise, anything goes!"

The creature threw his hands up, wattles quivering below a knife gash leer, eyes stretched wide in phony enthusiasm. "And it doesn't end there, F-Zero fans! Brigades are back! Brigades of ten or fewer are now authorized. With these rules in place, it's no longer a simple race, but a war at high speed. Oh race fanatics, can you feel the hype?"

"What are these new rules?" asked Alucard. He'd remained still the whole while, forehead furrowed.

"Your pops has turned the Grand Prix into a death race. Zero liability means pilots have a free hand to slay pilots, with or without weapons. Can't be sued. Brigades are temporary alliances between ten or fewer pilots in a given race. They agree to fight together, or at least not fight each other, and later split the winnings. Placing first, second, and third, a brigade can soak up the credits by the hundred-thousands, and perhaps survive long enough to spend them. No matter what this scum says, Brigades have never been popular with the fans. Slows the race down with faction politics, fewer crashes." The bad old days were back again. Falcon frowned, willing his hands to unclench and his blood pressure to lower. Bastard had made it personal with Jody. Now he insulted the race itself.

"I see you have your own brigade formed already," simpered the plutocrat emcee. "Mind introducing us?"

Dracula's smile quirked, revealing a fang. No one gasped. No one in attendance thought this anatomical feature novel enough to comment on. "Many of these faces are ones you'll recognize." He gestured towards the audience. The stream blinked as feeds switched POV. "Some are new. You will come to know their names, and indeed will know of their skill, very soon."

The camera drones panned slow over the front row seats. Don Genie, looking constipated, sat stiff as a mast, drooling blood. Zoda fidgeted in his seat, eyes darting in all directions. Literally. Remotely controlling his eyes, the balls flitted about, free from their sockets, spying on everyone. He didn't seem to have been vampirized, but it was hard to tell. Baba, Bio Rex, Michael Chain were there too. Track veterans all.

Impossibly, Black Shadow sat among them, frowning, arms crossed, back from the dead. No one in the room seemed to find any cause for concern that one of the most infamous criminals in history, a man who had posed an existential threat to the Federation, was present. Death in his grimy blankie hovered beside a woman Falcon had not yet seen. She wore a lacy red silk dress, and a laughing mask of gray steel, a trail of blood dribbling from one eye hole. Perhaps it was a trick of the lighting, but her exposed skin looked paler than Alucard's, with pure white hair hanging past her shoulders. "Carmilla," Alucard whispered.

As one the brigade of Dracula turned to face or waved to the camera drones. Fangs poked from every smile and leer, a red gleam in every eye. Only Zoda seemed exempt, concentrating on wiring some contraption cradled in his lap as one eye buzzed over his shoulder. Perhaps he was too strange for Dracula to change. Jody was there. Only she wasn't smiling, wasn't waving. She glared intently at the camera. And then the feed switched back to the stage.

"Any words for your competitors, Shadow Lord?"

A sound began to intrude into the stream. A low hissing of static, at first. Strains of music, or voices, wriggled through the white noise, distorted as if transmitted over a weak signal.

Over the stream, through distance and latency and time, Dracula locked eyes with Falcon. The static grew louder—it sounded closer, somehow. The odd warbling definitely sounded more like voices, rising in urgency, and Falcon could almost make out words. In a voice heavy and somber as a gravestone, Dracula answered.

"No sacrifice is in vain."

"W-well said," gushed the trillionaire. With an embroidered handkerchief he dabbed at a tear of black ichor leaking from one eye. A rictus grin remained frozen on his face, distorting his further babbling. The ranks of committee members behind him also wept black, each smiling in the same way, each having not moved while the camera drones watched. A deep, droning thrum joined the white noise. The static hiss rose to a shriek.

"Turn off," Falcon said. The holodisplay obeyed his command, the stream and its hideous noises cut out.

For a time they stood alone with their thoughts in the dim light of day. The restored quiet reverberated in his ears.

"He has control of Project HQ." Falcon explained how he'd mysteriously teleported into the building and out again while exploring Castlevania. "This is his Grad Prix now. His rules. Racing the Grand Prix, we'll be fighting on a ground of his choosing."

Alucard nodded. "My father is adept at corralling the wicked. The Execution Project is a natural fit for him."

A clear conflict of interests, Dracula being a participating pilot and all, but blatant displays of corruption in the Federation had never slowed business down one nanosecond. F-Zero fans would debate and grumble, but come the day of the race they would fork over their credits and cheer themselves raw all the same. Fanthings across the galaxy had no idea what was going on, but they smelled blood, something the long established rules had deprived them of for several Grand Prix, and they would find the scent sweet. Even if they defeated Dracula, the sport would not be the same for a long time.

Falcon sat down next to Alucard. He sat close, hoping to brush up against his legs, but the half-pire shifted them clear at the last second.

"Including today, we have four days, four nights before the Grand Prix." He looked into Alucard's face, saw more than the usual aloofness. There was numb blankness there. This beautiful man-monster was in serious pain. Perhaps the fight had already gone out of him. Falcon resolved to rekindle the dying fire, if he could.

"That's enough time to hammer some basic race competency into you."

"Impossible." Alucard shook his head, tossing those gorgeous silver locks.

Falcon cupped his knee, squeezed gently. Alucard did not pull away. "I won't stand such filthy language in my house. Impossible for others, maybe. They don't have me as mentor." He gruffed up his voice. "If you can't do it for yourself, then do it for Jody."

Alucard sighed, the weight of the galaxy upon his slender shoulders. "There's no other choice. I have failed, so we must try your way."

"Do you need to sleep between the race and now?"

"Before this week I had plenty of rest. I'll stay awake the whole week, if that's what you're asking."

Falcon let go of the knee and clasped the cool, cool hand next. Alucard did not squirm or try to pull his hand back. "Will you stay sharp? Can you keep yourself at your best through the race?"

"Yes." This time he made eye contact. And held it.

"Then nights and mornings you'll train. VR and the real thing at the practice track. Third night, I'm entering you in an underground race. After, I'll critique your run and work the bugs out on the last day."

Alucard stared, his hooded gaze unusually wide open. Perhaps it was his version of staring with mouth agape.

"You can't be serious. I'm no racer."

Falcon cracked his neck. "Not now you aren't. I'll change that. Way I figure it, even if you have just a quarter of your daddy's talent, you'll be a terror on the track. In the meanwhile, I'll be calling some people I know, making some arrangements. Lots of folks owe me favors and I can promise them new ones. We need all the help we can get."

"We?"

"Nights, you learn F-Zero. Days, we recruit our posse. Dracula squads up, we do the same."

* * *

Day 1

* * *

Dr. Stewart looked up from his tablet, his long face sour. "You're not my 2 PM," he said deadpan.

"What is up, Doc? Seen the race news lately?" Falcon helped himself to a chair. Somewhere along the way, wading through feral waiting rooms and navigating gore-streaked halls, he had found a green sucker. Falcon yanked the wrapper off and set it on Stewart's desk. Time to discover the truth. He set the stale disk of hard candy to his tongue. Lime flavor. Good. He hated apple.

Alucard drifted in like one of his daddy's ghosts and took up post by the door in case security tried to intervene. Falcon was pretty sure they'd shook the guards off their six, but who could ever be sure of anything inside a hospital?

The top general surgeon of Mute City Tentacle of Mercy Hospital buried his nose in his tablet, hip to the purpose of their visit and determined to ignore the problem until it got bored and went away.

"I'm not qualified anymore. Haven't raced in two years."

Falcon reached over and snatched the tablet away. "Don't feed me that shit. Your qualification is gold for life, like mine."

Rather than grope out to get his work back, Dr. Stewart sighed and folded his hands. "Since when does Captain Falcon team up with anyone? 'The raptor flies alone,' you always said. Repeatedly."

"There's something bigger than me I'm fighting for. They got Jody."

Stewart blinked at that. He looked off to the side, and the harsh lighting cast every crinkle and crease in sharp relief. The man was a legend in his own right. A healer of any wound, a dandy, a savior of many lives, a consummate lady's man, and a hell of a F-Zero pilot. But in the shadows gathered in the folds and fine webs around the eyes and mouth, Falcon could see that age had begun to mark its claim on the good doctor.

"My work keeps me so busy of late… I hadn't heard. I am sorry, Captain. But as much as I want to help Jody, I can save far more lives by staying right here. Don't look surprised. I may have retired from the wheel, but I keep an ear to the track. I've heard… things. Awful things. Like everyone else, I saw what happened at Death Wind. This Grand Prix will be a blood bath to rival the Horrific Finale if even half the rumors are true. Either way, when it's over, there will be a great need for skilled surgeons. I've already cleared my calendar.

"Besides, there's someone else racing car number three. Someone named Rick Wheeler, I think?"

Falcon waved away the objection. "Rick dropped out. Several pilots have dropped out, hearing the same whispers as you. I've called in a couple of favors, and secured some open slots, provided I can supply pilots the fans will pay to see. You qualify, Doc."

Stewart cleared his throat. "Well, you have my answer. I am sorry." As Falcon put his feet down and leaned in to argue further, the doctor snatched back his tablet with foxy agility. "Best leave before security sweeps find you here."

Falcon slapped the tablet down onto the desk, pinning it under his hand. "Look, I need you to race Mute City track because a major medical crisis is imminent. We need your help to prevent the outbreak of a terrible plague."

That raised Stewart's eyebrow. "And which microbial threat would that be? I know of none that respond to Grad Prix rankings."

Falcon looked him in the eye through his visor, mouth set in a grim line. Loading his voice with all the gravity it could bear, he announced in a funeral tone: "Vampirism. Some of the pilots in the Grand Prix have it. We can't let them spread it around."

Letting go of the tablet, Stewart stroked his chin, gaze growing distant. "Vampirism. Mmm… Is it new? I've heard of vamps, an ancient term for sexual predators, if I recall correctly." Sudden realization flashed across his face. Cheeks blushing, he glared at Falcon.

"Listen, Captain. As much 'fun' as it would be to place my life in danger in helping you bag a few bounties, I cannot afford such gross dereliction of my duties, not even for a cut of the prize payouts. Perhaps you should be asking for help from the psychological and psi wards one floor up. Though I must warn you, the power's been off on that level for most of the week. Heavily armed Federation reserve soldiers are still trying to clean things up."

To lend credence to this, the lights momentarily flickered. Down through the ceiling came a repetitive thumping, pounding louder and louder. Then a noise that might have been a scream, followed by many frantic footfalls and the distinct whine of full automatic plasma rifle fire.

"It may take them another week, yet. Too late for the race, I'm afraid," Doctor Stewart said, looking up with a frown at the swaying light fixtures.

"Doctor, if I may demonstrate the seriousness of this condition," said Alucard. He drew his sword. It was a testament to Stewart's nerves that he didn't so much as flinch or roll his chair back a micrometer as the stranger approached his desk, sword held high. Then Alucard reversed his grip and plunged the blade between his ribs. He grunted, bending a little, then drew the sword free. The wound closed in seconds, he held the damaged shirt apart so the doctor could see. Then he helped himself to a tissue to wipe up the trickle of blood leaking from his nose.

Spitting out a little more blood, Alucard breathed and spoke normally. "As you can see, the disease has its benefits. It is a parasite which empowers its host, to better survive, and hunt. Vampirism has spread to several pilots. Patient zero is among them, and has likewise infected the F-Zero Execution Project committee. Imagine, the wealthy predators of our age upgraded to a new, virulent stage of monstrosity. Can operating on a dozen or so crash victims compare to the reign of terror and bloodshed which must surely follow if we do not contain this here, and now?" He held out the bloody wad to the doctor, who, for a large number of valid medical reasons, made no move to accept it. Alucard set the tissue on the edge of his desk. "Check it for nanomachine traces, if you must."

Dr. Stewart had not taken his eyes off Alucard since he'd stepped forward. Had not blinked. At last, he spoke. "Give me a day to collect my things and reschedule my appointments."

From the floor above, slamming foot falls and shrieked laughter echoed down.

* * *

Night 1

* * *

Alucard reeled from the VR arcade cabinet, having just completed his two-hundredth time trial. He'd started training around eight in the evening. It was now three in the morning.

"So… that was another crash," said Falcon, sipping some green tea. He had awoken to check the results. With the help of sleep supplement pills, Falcon only required four hours of sleep a night. "Impressive. For a virtual track with no edges to fall off of, and no lethal obstacles, vehicular destruction should be an impossible end state. But you found a way."

"I've chased the shadow image of my best time around the same three tracks all night, and I can find no way to supersede my own high water mark established not long after I began. Racing, it makes no sense to me. I lay on the accelerator, I brake only when I must, but still… the turns." He stared down at his clawed fingers. "The turns eat me alive. And the turbo boost brings me naught but woe."

Falcon set down his tea. "You need to learn how to drift into turns. And you're breaking all wrong. I'll show you." Falcon climbed into the cabinet. He patted his lap. "Come on in. It's best if you're in here to watch me."

Flashbacks of the Falcon Assail tormented Alucard. He hugged his chest and began to pace. "I am fully sick of your molestations. Do you think me so stupid that I've failed to notice your arousal in my presence? This is difficult enough without having to navigate the contours of your inflamed loins."

Falcon rubbed the back of his neck, turning his eyes downwards. He sighed. "I've been flirting aggressively—too much through touch, and for that I'm sorry. We're in this too far for me to be coy about it. I want you, and you want to win. I'll do my best from now on to keep my feelings for you separate from our work together. There won't be a hard-on this time." He climbed out. "Better yet, I'll go get a second cabinet, and we'll jack into the same session."

"No." Alucard pushed him back to the cabinet. "Let's not waste time. Show me."

Together they climbed in, Alucard on top of Falcon. True to his word, nothing stiff prodded through his trousers. Alucard seized the wheel and Falcon matched his grip, hands overlaying hands. The practice track resolved in around them, the level of visual detail seen through the virtual windshield frightfully realistic.

Captain Falcon steered the Blue Falcon through all manner of turns, his foot on the break alongside Alucard's so he could feel how much and by what timing he worked the wheel and pedals, throttle and transmission. Falcon, for all his usual cloddish roughness, proved a gentle teacher, burning away the early hours whispering in Alucard's ear where he was going wrong, beard stubble rasping pleasantly at his lobe. The veteran pilot guided him with graceful hands through the subtle yet vital movements which could steer a vehicle safely past corkscrew twists and switchback corners while hurtling over twelve-hundred kilometers an hour.

Despair that he lacked an intrinsic instinct for this sport continued to hound Alucard, but by the time the sun stood well clear of the sparkling ocean horizon he no longer felt a bumbling fool behind the wheel. He even dared to fantasize he might survive five laps on a real track.

Together they shambled out stiff and bleary-eyed to face the day and hunt down a brunch. Surprising himself, Alucard discovered his fantasies didn't end with visions of staying alive via the merest F-Zero competence. Towards the end of practice, Falcon had began to stiffen against him once more. Alucard had not objected, had even pressed his rear into it by a degree. Now waking dreams intruded on his tired mind of when he would find an excuse to press against Falcon again and breathe deep the scent of flame kissed blood and musk.

* * *

Day 2

* * *

It was a small shop, one among a dozen in a squalid row just south of the Tortiz 3 Federation Military Far Force Projection Base. Alucard looked over the decaying store facade, pasted together with slime green polymer bricks, some of which had crumbled or been kicked in to expose the hard globs of insulation within. Perhaps it had once been a bank.

The sign read: _Goose Hunt_. In smaller letters beneath, "Scanners, ammo, and all other supplies needed for hunting the most dangerous prey. Highest quality knives in the hemisphere!"

Gleaming racks of blades crowded the storefront windows. The selection represented dozens of cultures, time periods, and ostensible purposes. Bayonets, trench knives, too long combat knives, main-gauches, throwing stars, broadswords, Space Pirate shavers, Temmic krutzzigs, shovels that were overly large, unwieldy axes, pen knives, knives disguised as pens, multi-tool army knives, prison shivs with plastic jewels glued on, and so much more. Their collective reflection of the sun would dazzle the eyes of a browser to blindness if the windows weren't so dirty.

Inside, the juxtaposition of absurdity and naked aggression grew in power. Camo fabric draped in flaps from the uneven ceiling, stirred by the listless rotation of fans set to low. Red targeting reticle decals and target sheets featuring cartoons of various sapient species, each exaggerated in the universal visual language of racial stereotypes, decorated the walls. Dusty trophy heads covered the wall behind the counters, nearly as impressive a collection as the stabbing implements on display. Some of the vanquished specimens on display looked to have been sapient beings.

Falcon noticed, and elbowed Alucard in the ribs. "Don't let them shake you," he whispered. "Pico bought most of those things from a decor wholesaler, and the others are handmedowns from back when Pico used to have friends."

"At least I had some," piped a squeaky voice from behind the counter. Hunched under his carapace, Pico heaved up into view and set elbows to countertop. He had a khukuri knife in one hand, which he began to slide across a whetstone. The blade looked well honed, and scratched with use.

Falcon grinned. "It's lonely at the top. Not that you'd know."

Pico set the knife down carefully, eyes narrowing. "Only reason I never made champion was because you ran from every fight, in every race we were in together."

"Sure, because it's racing, not bumper cars. The goal is to cross the finish line in first place. Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"

"Coward," the mercenary hissed. And he kept on hissing, like an edge working over oilstone. One scaled hand crept back to the knife. So far the proprietor of Goose Hunt had yet to look in Alucard's direction. Hand on sword grip, he readied himself, every muscle loose, relaxed.

"Pico, please. All you ever did as a F-Zero pilot was to slap three layers of steel over an army surplus swamp airboat and drive it like a battering ram. You had to bludgeon your competition to death on the track because you sure as shit couldn't outrace them. Your bathtub on wheels was the biggest insider joke of the industry."

The tortoisesque gun-for-hire let out a warning squawk. Falcon pretended to inspect a display of black and gray urban camouflage water canteens as he laid the insults down on Pico's mind, bright and searing.

"Until the day you fumbled into a multiple homicide and set the track on fire. Seven dead, and you didn't even get paid! The flames and smoke killed more of them than your Mild Goose. Your whole fanbase walked out on you. They found other sloppy racers to fawn over. Pilots who were still sanctioned to race. That can't be easy on the ol' bank account. Leaving you to sell commando asswipes and tacticool toothpicks to chairborne rangers and overweight wannabe hitmen like yourself. Hey, have any of your customers ever had to buy the same knife twice because their mom confiscated the first one?"

Alucard was a bit put out by the whole scene. He had never seen Falcon like this. A man of action over words, beating someone down with snide remarks instead of honest fists felt like a patch of coarse wool on an otherwise soft cotton quilt.

Pico slammed the khukuri point first into the countertop and rocked back, sounding like a parrot suffering a coughing fit. "You bluster well for a fraud, but you're the industry joke now. Everyone saw you flop in the qualifier. Everyone knows of your desperation, sniffing after fools to join your brigade. This Shadow Lord is quite the predator. You're going to be skinned and gutted this Grand Prix, I think. I will enjoy watching."

Falcon yawned. "Just watch? You've really hit rock bottom. But you're right about one thing. Shadow Lord knows how to win friends. And I need someone with at least basic racing experience to act as buffer against his less talented goons. Ready to crawl slowly back into the limelight?"

Pico wasn't sold. Cackling, he produced an antique smart phone with a tactical matte black cover and prepared to record. "The mighty Captain Falcon has lowered himself to ask for my help. You can't afford me, coward."

Falcon leaned on the counter, not at all intimidated by the camera or the many, many knives in easy reach. "Not only do I know you desperately need the money, but I can pull some strings and get your license reinstated. No way is anyone else ever going to offer you a second chance."

With a grunt, Pico powered down the phone. "Feh. The committee can lick my shell clean. I get all the action I need underground, with none of the prissssy rules weaklings cling to."

This was a hurdle they had discussed earlier. Pico needed the money to survive, much less afford a new racing machine. And few pilots could resist the prestige and legitimacy F-Zero qualification bestowed. But the mercenary's pride would not allow him to accept a favor from an enemy, no matter how rich the reward.

Falcon pursed his lips. "Really. Surprising the underground leagues let you on the track."

"Oh, yesss! Three times crowned champion at Shadow Claw. Once in Red Canyon."

Falcon grunted, as if to suppress a laugh. "Well, that's… something, I suppose. When's the next race?" he asked as if he didn't already know.

"Tomorrow night."

"In that case, I have a wager, if you're not so decrepit that a little risk frightens you back into your shell."

The scaly hide over the base of Pico's beak pulled back in a sneer. "My, my. You'll risk scratching Blue Falcon's precious paint job in our humble arena?"

"Ha! No. We both know I'd blow you and the rest of the scum away. Let me introduce you to my protege, Alucard," Falcon slapped a hand around Alucard's shoulders and hugged him close.

"Wait, what?" They had not discussed this part before hand. He expected Falcon would naturally be the one to race against this experienced killer.

Pico focused on Alucard for the first time. Lids crinkled as his black eyes glittered in intense estimation. What he thought of Alucard, if he could sense the trepidation his challenger felt over his inexperience, Pico did not crack his beak to say.

Captain Falcon talked over their thoughts. "He's great. He'll whoop your scaled ass up and down three laps. But he does need to sharpen his skills. Prove himself against live racers unafraid of breaking rules. And I figure beating you will bloody his hands proper. What do you say? He wins, you join my brigade in the Grand Prix. You win, I'll give you my share of the winnings from the Grand Prix, and you can claim to have bested my prize pupil. Is that too much for you to handle, old man?"

"It's a deal!" Pico slashed open his own palm and held it out. Falcon spat in his and took Pico's paw in a firm shake.

"Done!" With his free hand, Falcon slammed a fist down on the smart phone, shattering it to shrapnel.

* * *

Night 2

* * *

To Alucard's credit, he at least waited until they were inside the Falcon Flyer before exploding. "What are you doing? I'm still learning to brake for narrow turns. Only last night did I gain a notion of proper steering. I don't know anything about surviving a death match."

Falcon declined to look at him. He stormed into the cabin and started up the engines. "You won't be surviving. You'll be dominating. You need to win this, Alucard. I have important plans on how I'll spend my Grand Prix winnings."

"Wonderful to know where your priorities lie." Sullen, bitter. A tone new to the unflappable Alucard, at least since Falcon had met him.

In seconds they were rising, the atmosphere fading rapidly to black as vestiges of ice vapor sheered back from the bow. A short flight would put them on the Higgs super starway and back home to Port Town. There, the night would be young, and the work of molding a newbie into a hardened circuit warrior would resume its grueling pace.

A soft thump. Somewhere behind him, the silken hiss of fabric sliding down the cabin wall. Falcon took a deep breath of filtered air. Today, he had made a poor showing. Wallowing with Pico had soiled his soul and he'd taken the resulting anger out on a friend. Captain Falcon was better than this. The Falcon demanded better. He set the autopilot and headed back.

Alucard had sagged to the floor between seats, fine face buried in his long hands. Falcon stooped and gently took those beautiful hands into his own, held the fingertips to his exposed throat. The numbness of the mummy's curse still gnawed his right arm, but while clasping Alucard it felt a little less dead.

"You're attuned to all things sanguine. So listen to my blood's rhythm through the tips of your fingers. Does my heart hammer the blood through my veins?"

For a time, Alucard kept his eyes lowered. It felt as if he were no longer present, a doll of meat left where the man had been. With the fluttering of his gorgeous eyelashes, he returned.

"The pulse is unhurried. Regular. Circumstances leave you unfazed. As a man infamous for his passion, it is strange to find you so cool. You speak of winnings, but the life of your friend Jody is at stake."

"I know."

Alucard looked up, found his gaze through the visor.

"Then how can you be so damned cold? Even immortals sometimes manage to care for others."

The insinuation, coming from nearly anyone else, would've warranted the back of his hand. For Alucard, it was something close to pity. A bad sign.

"You misunderstand. I'm not showing off how callused and self-interested I am. I'm worried about Jody. Worried about you. See." He tapped Alucard's fingers against the side of his neck. "I'm not stressed because I know what I'm doing. I know we're not helpless. And I know you can defeat all comers tomorrow night. You'll be ready. I won't let you be anything else. So just put your faith in me if you have none for yourself."

Alucard yanked his hands free, shaking his head. He hissed in pain, sounding far more feral, hungrier than Pico ever had. "My life is a thousand year story that has become surreal parody, like any net stream drama where the writers ran out of ideas before the end of the third season. My father has become a monster I no longer recognize. My mission to protect mankind from vampirism has taken on the qualities of a sad shut-in's pointless, masturbatory obsession. I am ungrounded and lost, forced to play arbitrary games to no discernible end." Again, he hid his face. "After all these centuries, I'm struggling to cling to something that is real, that has meaning."

Falcon sat down on the plush carpet and pulled Alucard shivering but unresisting into his arms. "If life has taken away all the old meanings, then you must carve some new ones from the hide of the present. I'm real. I will teach you to do this. These trials I put you through are building the base for future victories. I know you understand the meaning of sacrifice, and discipline. The obstacles you face seem impossible only because they're strange to you. You have defeated your father before. You have survived Castlevania several times. You have passed as a Federation agent for years. These new challenges will fall before you as all others have. I, Captain Falcon, swear it."

Hours later, as Falcon finished packing Alucard into the cockpit of the Practice Falcon, the cool, white steel gaze of the old Alucard met his own. The other racers were nearly ready. Nearby, Dr. Clash gave Falcon the thumbs up. For a modest fee, he allowed aspiring pilots to race one of three practice courses he had designed to help fund his many engineering projects. The track they stood upon this night was the obstacle course. There were plasma barriers and magnet traps, mines, rough patches, oil slicks, crushing pistons, and the other drivers. The Practice Falcon, scuffed and battered and unpainted, could take most of it. The other pilots would have to work to crash it to pieces. The rest would come down to Falcon's instruction and Alucard's killer instinct.

Falcon handed Alucard the extra reinforced stunt pilot helmet. He couldn't resist imparting one last piece of wisdom.

"Something you need to remember. In the underground, there's no rules. That works in your favor every bit as much as Pico's. Comes down creativity. Stop panicking and start thinking over all the options you have that he and the rest of the scum don't."

Alucard nodded. "I have a few ideas to try out."

Falcon smiled, then gave the thumbs up to the doctor. Clash switched on the course, setting off a crazed forest of many colored lights. The track hummed of high-powered electromagnets. There came the teeth jittering thumps of death pistons. For a moment, Alucard hesitated to place his hands on the wheel.

"Trust the process," Falcon told him, then slammed the hatch closed.


	14. Wicked Child

* * *

Day 3

* * *

"Feeling okay?"

Dr. Clash's obstacle course had banged up the Practice Falcon something fierce. The machine crawled, sparking and groaning, over the finish line second to last. It's pilot had fared little better, unable to walk a straight line after tumbling out of the cockpit.

Alucard rubbed his left arm. "Still a bit stiff. It will be fine. I heal quickly."

An awkward pause passed. "You all right? Up here?" Falcon tapped the side of his helmet.

Alucard gave him the side-eye. "You're wondering if my loss has further unsettled me. Your concern is unnecessary. I failed to finish first place, but it was a valuable opportunity to learn. Failure is the best teacher. Tonight, I will be ready."

"Glad to hear it."

Rain, of mercifully low acidity index this time around, fell from rumbling charcoal clouds. The downpour kicked up a fog and made the antique electric noble gas signs buzz and crackle. Spiting the deluge, the gummy filth coating the roads and sidewalks refused to relinquish its hold. Street cutters edged out from the mouths of alleyways, sinister as demons in the red glow of neon or the blue pallor of xenon. Fingering the grips of their homemade knives and zip guns, they scanned over their prospective victims, realized who they were dealing with, and faded away into the blue shadows. Street crime increased in the buildup to the Grand Prix.

Falcon and Alucard had finished trawling the cybernetics quarter of Mute City for recruits. After the demise of Mighty Gazelle, no cyborg qualified for F-Zero wanted to risk the race, not until it was well understood what manner of weapon had laid their mighty peer low.

With few options left, they moved on to the Spin and Burn. This close to the race, pilots would be there. Whether they'd be worth a damn, or willing, was another thing entirely. Falcon hated to admit it, but three days in he was already running low on ideas. His continued success had isolated him. Over the last few years his networks deteriorated. It didn't help that 'Shadow Lord' had scared off, killed, or bound by blood many of his potential allies. Perhaps in the underground they might scrounge a few gems from the piles of shit, as Super Arrow had years ago.

Cars and hovercycles crowded the curb in front of the Spin and Burn. The joint was booming tonight.

Daring to feel hopeful, Falcon shoulder tackled his way inside, through the press of bodies. The warm stink of beer and weed smoke rolled over the damp stone smell of the rain outside. The babbling of many voices competed with the thumping bass for dominate loudness. By the time they wound their way to the counter, the voices had faded, leaving only the cranking techno beat to rebound off the walls.

Falcon, hand raised to summon the barkeep, looked behind to find a crowd of backs turned his way. Alucard stood nearby, eyebrows raised.

"Have we violated some race culture mores?" he asked.

Falcon kept a straight face to hide his astonishment. He was used to cold shoulders and resentful glares. But he had never seen, nor heard of, a full shunning.

"The hell's your problem?" he thundered out. Better a bar brawl than this awful human silence. "He's got you all so spooked you can't even look me in my face?"

"It's far worse than being spooked," growled a sawblade voice. The barkeep kept his distance, a vintage shotgun leveled at Falcon and Alucard. "The Lord's made it crystal clear. Anyone who sides with you, drinks with you, even says a kind word to you won't see their next dawn." The barkeep swallowed hard. Though his face was stoic, lips a flat line, the shotgun waggled in his shaking grip.

"Please. For everyone's sake, leave." He flicked the double barrels at the door, through which dozens of patrons were already streaming, escaping into the streets. "I've probably said too much to you already. Just go."

Without another word or gesture, Falcon turned and made his way to the back door, Alucard drifting behind. As he passed by the bathroom hallway, a hand shot out and seized his arm with iron strength.

"Got a lot of nerve, showing your dumb ugly face around here," grated a high voice.

Falcon grabbed back and pulled hard. A tall man in a long coat staggered out of the dim hall, face hidden under a slouching hat. In pitching forward, the stranger lunged for Falcon, fangs gleaming in the seedy orange light.

A sharp pain pinched his neck. Falcon grunted and backhanded the biter, careful to check his strength.

"Gaw!" The stranger yelped, voice squeaking. A familiar voice. Recognition clicked. Suspicion confirmed.

"The hour is getting late for pranks, Dai." Falcon ripped off the hat, pulled open the coat. Dai Goroh grinned back, standing on robotic stilts, a robot's arm mounted on his right shoulder. He pulled out the fake teeth and snapped them at Falcon.

"C'mon, man. Admit it. I got you. You nearly shat yourself just now."

"Do you… know this youth?" Alucard asked.

"Unfortunately." Falcon bustled them out the back door before the terrified barkeep gave in to panic and started blasting. The backlot had fully emptied out. The rain had at least eased back to a shower.

"Yes, you finally got me good. Now go home and read some comic books or something. Last I heard you have a gang of your own to run." Falcon shoved Dai Goroh towards the backlot fence gate.

Dai stood his ground, now perched on a pair of synthetic wood geta. The robotic limbs folded themselves into a neat ball which he dropped into his back pack. "No way, homie. I'm joining your brigade. This Grand Prix will be mine, fucker."

Falcon shook his head and jabbed a finger towards the street. No point in the usual lectures: too young; it's too dangerous; not good enough yet to go pro. Dai Goroh had proven himself in one Grand Prix already. He'd qualified as pilot, and built his own machine from scraps the year before that. Didn't matter. Falcon had lines he would not cross. Assuming some responsibility for a child and then getting them killed was one such line. Kid was only eleven years old.

"You heard. Associating with us is lethal."

Dai swaggered, gesturing to the neighborhood around them. "Just walking home tonight is lethal, mang."

"You know damn well what I mean. Stop wasting my time, boy. I won't have you getting greased on my conscience."

And then Dai was leaping at him, short sword bright under the street lamps, the blade sparkling with rain drops. Falcon caught the swing on a wrist guard, slapped the sword away. The kid stumbled backwards on his ass, face twisting in rage. "What conscience is that, homes? You feel guilty about my dad getting killed? High riding assholes like you only feel sorry for yourselves."

Falcon's head swam, momentarily dizzy from shared pain. So, Dai had heard. That was what this was all about. Wish for another pilot granted, then. A bitter fulfillment. There would be no turning the brat away now. Honor was involved.

Dai wiped his nose, red cheeks glistening with rain and tears. A jagged, brittle edge entered his voice. "My whole life I've worked hard to whoop your ass. You think I _like_ having to join your team, _kusotare_? Shadow Lord killed my father and now you're going to help me kill him. Or else I'll tell everyone what a punk coward you are. Take me half a day. Most people believe it already."

"Who is this child?" asked Alucard.

"I'm not a—" Dai threw his hands up, eyes rolling in disbelief. "Hey! You let this fey dipshit into your squad, but I'm not good enough for you? Fuck my everything. Captain Falcon, the champ, is stupid as hell. The whole world just needs to end."

"Samurai Goroh's son," Falcon muttered. "He's qualified to race, but—"

"If he's willing and capable, let him join us," Alucard said in an even tone. As if this was a sane, reasonable thing to say.

Falcon blinked. "Come again?"

"You should listen to this wise, beautiful man. He knows what he's talking about." Dai Goroh sidled up to Alucard, clutching at his sleeve. "Yo, you a man right? No judgment, just want to make sure I'm addressing you right."

"This will not be the first time a child has gone to war against Dracula. Can he race, Falcon?" The unspoken question being, Can he race better than me?

Falcon turned away in disgust. "Yeah. He knows how to handle a wheel. But he's never placed."

He head Alucard shift, probably to squat down and look Dai eye-to-eye. "Do you think you're good enough to face this test? Shadow Lord will make all possible effort to slay us, and likewise we will try for him. This battle will not be easy," said Alucard. Every word a drop of cool rain.

"You don't get it. Doesn't matter if I'm good enough. It has to be done. I'll be as good as I have to be to avenge my dad."

"Do you know what I am?" asked Alucard.

Chills raking down his spine, Falcon turned around. No, Alucard wouldn't.

He was.

"A… racer?" Dai Goroh ventured hopefully.

"Recently, yes. But I'm also a vampire. Think of it… as a cross between a cyborg and someone who has been infected with a plague. Powerful, but sick and able to spread their condition to others."

Dai Goroh let go of his coat sleeve. "You mean like a demon, or a gutter wight." He held up the false fangs and scissored them open and closed.

"Perhaps. Only much more dangerous. Dai, your father fell victim to my father, Dracula. He calls himself Shadow Lord now. Dracula turned your father into a vampire. Goroh then became one of Shadow Lord's soldiers. Facing him in combat, I slew your father last week."

Falcon squeezed his hands into fists. Whatever happened next, he wasn't sure what the hell he would do. When had this all become so complicated? So dirty?

Goroh's son fiddled with the grip on his short sword, flipping it over and over, perhaps considering the pale throat in easy striking distance. He looked into Alucard's eyes and Alucard looked back, unblinking, kneeling and relaxed. Though he was careful with his words, the half-vampire was neither cold nor soft towards the boy, offering only the unpitying honesty of one warrior speaking to another.

After a silence more terrible than the shunning of the Spin and Burn patrons, Dai shrugged. "He forced you to fight him, didn't he?"

"Yes. We dueled. I won. That is why I fight. To prevent others from becoming vampires."

"Yeah. The old man was always trying to beat everybody at everything. Becoming a vampire wouldn't change that." Dai turned to Falcon. Pointed the sword his way. "Father for a father. You and Dracula both owe me. Don't bother telling me no. I'll be there."

Cross the line. As you would any finish line. The Falcon within declined to provide or withhold approval, keeping its peace. Let things go and let it happen. All right.

Falcon relaxed his muscles, and nodded. "You're in."

* * *

Night 3

* * *

"The underground circuit moves constantly to dodge galaxy cops and regulators. They almost never use the same track twice," explained Falcon. This night, the anonymous Underground Committee had secured an abandoned cosmo terminal for the race. Once a legitimate F-Zero track, constructed over the skin of a space elevator cable and the interior wall of its hollow core, the sad derelict now floated in orbit over a planet whose name no one cared enough to recall.

A trio of elevator cable sections floated through the terminal, snapped off the original colossal wire which had since fallen from orbit. Over and through these loosely ringed portions of severed cable they would race. Few rails guarded the snaking track, meaning any vehicles steered astray would fly off unbounded into the microgravity, likely to impact a shard of terminal hull co-orbiting the course, or plummet into a rapidly decaying low orbit from which there was little chance of rescue. To Alucard's eye, had the superstructure been completed, it would've made a breathtaking sight. A hint of grace yet haunted the slowly revolving ruin.

"If it comes to a car fight, and it will, the track will be as much a weapon as your car."

"Anything else I should keep in mind?" Alucard asked.

"Yeah. Remember to have fun."

And with that, Falcon left for the stands, where Dai Goroh was already eating the candy he'd wisely purchased ahead of time. Illegal races little bothered with offering food vendor concessions.

There was no underground equivalent to Mr. Zero. No bellowing emcee to announce racers or hype up the crowd. Only a surly, many-tentacled flag bearer who squidged out to the starting line, leaving a snail trail of goo behind.

Alucard looked up and down the line, taking a final catalog of the competition. Among all the forgettable shifty-eyed thugs and glowering toughs, the standouts were a sapient mollusk who held his soft body erect with quiet dignity, a trio of fluff-haired dwarves sharing a collective intelligence, Rob69, a robot whose pelvis was constantly gyrating, and Pico. The shelled mercenary hissed and licked the curvy blade of a kris knife in Alucard's direction. Noticing that he'd been noticed, Pico gave Alucard a thumbs down.

I understand you now, Alucard thought. You have no wish to race. You want to fight. Fine. While new to the track, I am an old hand at combat.

The flag bearer cleared his mucusy throat. The pilots entered their cars and secured their hatches.

"Start yer engines," called out the flag bearer.

G-diffusers gently lifted the chassis off the track. Ignition fires banked in the nozzles of rockets. With a low turbine roar, the fourteen machines powered up. One machine for each of the ten racers. And three extra for Alucard, all following his main car's lead by turning the engine and revving up. Falcon had Blue Falcon prototypes and test cars to spare, all older models unfit for a F-Zero Grand Prix, but they might stand against the hodgepodge rigs the underground was infamous for.

The race organizer had thrown a tantrum when he found out. "A pilot can't have more than one machine! It's—"

"Against the rules?" Falcon had asked, arms crossed.

Caught, the organizer sputtered and raved. "Sapient pilots only. A.I. pilots not housed inside a discrete robot body can't be allowed, or else the whole damn race would degenerate into nothing but a drone swarm."

"I promise you, other than basic protocols to ignite engines and keep them running, my man here will be piloting all four himself. Left on their own, these cars will wobble off the track, or get knocked clear by a thinking pilot. There's no A.I. beyond that in use. I don't see you outlawing the collective trio over there."

"Fine. But I find the least evidence of you lying to me, we'll cut ya, no matter if you're Captain Falcon or not."

The flag bearer lifted the checkered flag and then slashed it downwards. Rockets belched fire. Hadron coils flared radiation. Inertia lost its grip and the machines were off, exploding from the oxygen field gate to drop fishtailing and weaving over the cylindrical track. Two pilots, unfamiliar with racing over an additional dimension, hurtled off the convex course to careen into a wall of steel shielding slowly spinning by. Fortunately, Falcon had drilled Alucard in navigating over tubes and through them, along with corkscrews and open loops. Alucard found piloting live not much different than VR sim, and soon enjoyed the feel of the machine under his control.

Pico wasted no time in commencing the assault. The Wild Goose mk. 2 smashed aside Rob69 and swooped in to shove Alucard clear off the elevator cable.

Alucard veered away and cast teleport. He materialized in car number 3, which he maneuvered to Pico's left. Teleported to car 2, which he used to ram Wild Goose from behind. He was afraid he'd misjudged the angle, but again the grueling practice paid off. Instead of boosting forward from the collision, the hit sent the Wild Goose sliding to the left at high speed, where it pinballed off car 3.

Another teleport spell cast to take control of car 4, Alucard accelerated it ahead of Pico. Then back to car 1, leaving 2 and 3 to flank the Wild Goose. Pico surged forward, darting in for the kill, but car 2 zipped into his path for the block, the jarring impact nearly knocking him off the track.

As Pico attempted to haul the Goose back to safety, the course underwent a drastic transition. The cable dropped away, and all machines were obliged to hop over a gap to the next piece. Pico landed on one strip of frayed cable. With a bit of frantic spell casting, Alucard landed all four cars on another. Down the throat of the hollow cable, the machines could plot their own coarse over the interior wall with 360 degrees of freedom. Driving overhead, Pico glared down at him through the windshield of his armored puck.

The mercenary could see three empty cars, could guess the trick, but there wasn't much Pico could do about it. Alucard had to admit, this was a new kind of fun, a thrill he had not experienced in ages. Perhaps, he could grow to enjoy this.

Five seconds later, they completed the first lap. Two more to go.

The mollusk pilot sprang ahead. Switching constantly between all his cars, Alucard stalked the leader's tail while penning in Pico behind a fence of three 'Blue Falcons.' The tortoisesque assassin came on cautiously, testing his prison with agile feints, yet finding no gaps to exploit. Pico was unable to predict the timing of the four machines' erratic acceleration. Second lap passed in just over a minute, with Pico fourth, Alucard in third and second, and the tentacled pilot maintaining first.

In the final lap Pico grew desperate. At the cost of speed, he repeatedly rammed Alucard's machines. At the first gap he managed to slam car 4 at an odd angle, propelling it to miss the next section of elevator cable. Alucard barely managed to teleport out in time before the car smashed in a plume of shredding metal through an old display board.

Alucard struck back, a flurried combo of cars 1 and 3 smacking the Wild Goose back and fourth. Pico's counterattack was instantaneous. The Wild Goose rebounded from a hit and used the velocity to whirl into a high-powered spin attack. Alucard's hopes, that the Goose had sustained enough damage to cripple it, evaporated when the spinning machine slammed car 3 clean off the track, tumbling nose over bumper away into empty space. Pico then slid into car 1, and with methodical brutality crowded it off the course. Struggle with the wheel all he might, Alucard's lighter vehicle couldn't out sumo wrestle the heavy Goose. Cutting his loss, Alucard teleported before he was shoved outside the spell's effective range.

Down to just car 2. The Wild Goose loomed in the rearview camera feed.

The lap was nearly finished. Alucard cast tetra spirit, sending four vicious poltergeists to attack the mollusk in first. Careful to target the car and not the pilot when he cast, the incorporeal spirits phased through the machine's engine, breaking everything they hit.

One engine out, safety shield blinking in warning, the lead pilot slowed, indicating he was willing to settle for second or third place rather than be exploded. Alucard let him go.

Pico burned a turbo boost. A block of heavy metal, he would smash Alucard into space. No time to take a breath, Alucard teleported outside the machine. Enveloped by the vacuum, he shapeshifted.

In a scene destined to be immortalized in tattoos and painted on the sides of racing machines and vans for years to come, Alucard flew through empty space at terrible speeds, no air drag to slow him down, transforming into a wolf with the Tepes family sword gripped in his jaws. With fortitude and agility beyond man or wolf, he landed on the windshield of the Wild Goose and stabbed the blade through the crystal pane, down into the cockpit, through Pico's thigh.

Pico did not glance down at the wound, even as green ichor spread through trousers and seat leather. He gaped, one green tear beading his eye, as he beheld the sword wolf. His fur unruffled in the void, glowing in the pale red light cast from a sliver of nameless moon in that instant shining through a tear in the terminal's wall. Lost to awe, he veered off the line of attack, slowing the fraction necessary to miss first place.

Alucard and sword teleported back into car 2 an instant before crossing the finish line.

On the way to collecting the prize money, Pico stormed up to Alucard, seething, a soaked bandage hastily wrapped around his leg. "Cheater! Coward! _Nngnnnghh_ —I demand a rematch, with no extra damn cars."

Alucard unsheathed his sword, its point stopping Pico in his tracks. "You'll honor your bargain or I'll dice you into soup meat." He collected his credits and left, declining to so much as glance at the assassin despite his teakettle hissing.

Falcon greeted him aboard the Falcon Flyer, arms crossed and stern of mien. "Underhanded. Dirty." Falcon grinned. "Brilliant. You've authored a legend tonight." He laughed and clapped Alucard over the shoulders. "When you explained it to me… well, hard not to entertain doubts. But I was wrong. You beautiful, crafty sonovabitch."

"All for naught, if Pico abandons his pledge."

"Oh, he won't back down. Not after making the wager public with all his boasting, then eating it in front of his beloved underground 'fans.' The Grand Prix is his chance to save face."

Car 2 had been loaded, the ship ready for takeoff. Dai clambered aboard, hooting and razzing Falcon for never carrying off anything so smooth. "It was bitchin'. If my dad had to be murdered by anyone, I'm glad it was you."

"Uh, thank you." Alucard bowed.

"You're too much, man." Dai strapped into a seat and buried his nose in his games console. "Sword woooolf," he sang under this breath.

"When you told me you 'had some ideas,' I never imagined…" Falcon shook his head. "You gonna do something similar for the Grand Prix? I'll need to buy more cars."

"Such a trick will not work against my father. His magical prowess outstrips my own."

"Magic, schmagic. This day you are an F-Zero pilot!" Falcon leaned in and kissed him. The Captain's lips were warm and smooth and strong. It had been a long time, yet Alucard did his best to reciprocate, drawn into the kiss by Falcon's strong hands pressing into his back.

"C'mon, guys. Suck face after we get home. I'm tired," whined Dai.

* * *

Day 4

* * *

On the fourth day they rested. Except for Alucard, who kept training. He ran simulations against virtual drivers, the algorithms replicating the habits and tactics of Captain Falcon's most infamous enemies, including Black Shadow and Zoda, pilots he would face on the morrow.

Late in the evening, Falcon found Alucard in the dining room, gazing out the windows at a gorgeous Port Town sunset. He joined Alucard, watching the last of the daylight bleed away. Falcon knew better that to spoil the moment with words.

When the disc of the sun finished sinking behind the waves, Alucard spoke. "It's beyond foolish, I know. But somehow I couldn't help standing a final watch. In case, out of all the cherished impossibilities, he would arrive at the eleventh hour, striding from the gathering darkness, the Morning Star in hand, to join us for the final battle."

"Who?"

"A Belmont. Some last, distant scion sprouted from the outermost twig of that legendary family tree."

"You can waste your whole life waiting for things to come to you, even if you live forever. Get shut of that. You're a racer now. You set your eyes on what you want and chase it down."

Neither spoke for a while. The stars and planets, what few the light pollution allowed through, multiplied across the surfaces of the restless waters. Ideals above, messy reality below.

"Well, at least you can settle for me," Falcon whispered in his ear.

Alucard rested against him. "Don't fish for pity. It's beneath you." He sighed. "Yes. At first I was condescending. I admit it. I thought of you as a desperate, final resort. The ages have claimed my friends and confidants one by one, and I became used to being alone. I grew cold. One day the waves of time will carry you away as well."

Falcon rumbled, deep in his chest. "As far as curses go, that's not too bad. Time gets everyone in the end, but you keep going. You're keeping a lot of people alive through your memories. There's some justice in that."

Alucard contemplated this, until Falcon began to knead his belly and crotch. He rose to the call, fully intending to respond in kind, but one more thing needed to be said first.

"I thought you were steel of an inferior grade," Alucard said between kisses. "But it was I who proved unequal to the task." Arousal muddled his metaphors, made forming words difficult. The smell of Falcon's skin was filling up his consciousness, the supple flexing of strong muscles pressing against his own, scattering his thoughts. "You caught me up." Falcon cupped his arse and lifted him onto the table. "I'm no longer a dusty heirloom upon a shelf, but a man living—"

"You talk too much," grumbled Falcon. He pressed in and sealed away Alucard's words with lips, tongue, and a successive parade of anatomy.

* * *

The Last Night

* * *

That night Falcon dreamt of his journey through Castlevania. Or perhaps he was really back there, living it, and the castle still whole and abundant with woe. No way to tell for certain. Time flowed strange there, cascading down the rocky steps of multiple dimensions rather than keeping inside the banks of a single channel.

He wandered downwards, into dripping caverns which wormed through layers of black and green rock. He somehow understood this was not wholly the bedrock over which Mute City sprawled. No matter. He was making good time, and felt certain he would catch up with Alucard soon.

In the dream, or at that moment, he came to a subterranean river. Its gray waters flowed swift and cold. Approaching in a worn wooden boat rowed the ferryman, who oared the river of the dead beneath Castlevania's foundations.

"Are you one of Dracula's goons?" Falcon asked him.

The gray figure in threadbare robes did not answer. He steered the boat to the river's bank and squared the oar blades against the current. Holding place, he waited. Seeing no other way to cross, Falcon stepped aboard. The boat wobbled under his boots and for a moment he nearly lost his balance. Pushing off from the shore, the ferryman rowed them downstream. There was nothing on the opposite bank but stalagmites and yawning voids.

Falcon wanted to interrogate the rower, but words grew small and crumbled to dust as they traveled up his throat. They voyaged in silence, the river whispering, sometimes in a million voices, sometimes sobbing with just one.

Perhaps an hour or a month later, the ferryman rowed the boat ashore. Samurai Goroh waited there on a rickety jetty. He boarded with a nod to Falcon and they were off again. Falcon did not deboard, for the jetty was on the same shore he'd left. It was the opposite shore he needed.

Words became possible again.

"Your son is doing well," said Falcon. "He's entering the Grad Prix against Dracula."

Goroh snorted. "I wish him luck." He turned his head, regarding Falcon through the night black lenses of his racing goggles. "Thanks for looking after the snot. Maybe you'll do him more good than I ever could."

He'd accepted no such responsibility for Dai, but it would've been cruel to say so now. By social reflex, Falcon tried summoning the words to affirm that Goroh had been… well, what exactly? A good father? The dryness of dust filled in his throat. He settled for the tried and true nod.

The oars churned the waters, stirring up a babbling susurrus with each stroke. Hunched to his work, stooped by a weariness that outlasted aeons, the ferryman rowed on in silence.

Always the talker, Goroh sallied forth once more. "It's a crime, growing old."

"Speak for yourself." Falcon had meant for the words to sound jocular, but they came out a defensive bleat.

"I speak to a universal condition, Douglas." Captain Falcon had never told Goroh his real name, and Goroh had never uttered it before. "Even if time doesn't carry away our wealth and our trophies, it skins off our skills. Sucks the core of what we really are out of us, leaving a senile shell behind to burden others. In a way, I'm glad I escaped that."

Falcon frowned, and looked down to regard the faces in the gray waters. "As will I. The Falcon will not allow it."

"You've clung to that power longer than most. But you can't hold onto the fire forever. It must be passed on."

Falcon shook his head. He needed no lectures on the Power. Certainly not from another ex-cop.

"I'm not too old. Not yet."

"Would you know it if you were?"

Falcon looked up.

Goroh removed the googles. Shining silver coins were set where he used to have eyes. "Take it from me, bird boy. The finish line comes at you fast." His mouth opened, gaping, stretching, tearing further and further, a starless night alive with the roar of oceans. "So very fast."

Sounding a hollow note, the boat thunked against the far shore. Goroh climbed out. He was wearing his goggles. He looked back, lenses dull in the non-light. He waved Falcon down. "Not yet. Next stop is yours."

Falcon had a hard time looking at, much less seeing, the territory which rolled down from the river bank. All a smear, nothing and many things. Soon he stopped trying to glimpse the future. He didn't wave goodbye and Goroh didn't wait for a fair thee well. Goroh trudged onwards, vanishing into the clouds of indeterminacy as the ferry shoved off once more.

One short hop down a shallow water fall, the ferryman not even flinching as they splashed down, and they had reached another jetty. This one was on the same shore Falcon had boarded from, but here a passage of masoned stone led to a stairwell. Down those stairs blew a breeze that was warm, carrying a faint whiff of wood smoke and old blood. Falcon flipped the ferryman a credit and deboarded. Before his boot touched the third step, he had mostly forgotten about the gray river and its gray boatman.

* * *

Finished with practice drills and having survived a few hours in Falcon's bed, Alucard napped aboard the Falcon Flyer on the flight to Mute City. Alucard did not wake on landing, and so they had an easy time spiriting him off the ship to an unknown destination.

They wore ceremonial armor of fine steel mesh, spiked shoulder pads, and armored gloves and boots—a more primitive version of the standard F-Zero pilot's racing suit. Each wore a mask and each was different. Some were unadorned and functional, others were polymer party masks gaudy with glitter and fake gem stones, or biker helmets smeared with luminescent paint in the pattern of laughing faces, or the sagging rubber of hideous Halloweed Night monster masks.

Therefore, when Alucard snapped awake, it was with claws out, surrounded and in the hands of strangers dressed for a macabre ritual. Falcon leaned in, smiling, and put a finger to his lips, stopping Alucard a second before he commenced the shredding. Falcon wore a domino mask tied over his usual helmet. The man bearing his right leg might've been Dr. Stewart, judging by body shape, but all others were unknown to him. Alucard intuited they were all F-Zero pilots, and this was to be the often rumored yet deeply secret initiation ceremony unique to the world of high stakes racing.

At one point, they blindfolded him and shut him into a well cushioned trunk of an unremarkable hovercar. All throughout the ride the clamor of Mute City rose and fell. After a while of being driven around, the city noise fell to a distant drone and the trunk opened. Cool hands seized him and bore him up. Someone ripped off the blindfold. A dim room, walls painted black. Even with superior vampiric sight he barely glimpsed the leering masks of his initiators.

Then they removed his clothes. He was marched into a larger, drafty chamber, and nudged to proceed forward, alone. A curtain of flames fell hissing from the ceiling. Naked, Alucard walked unafraid through the fire, knowing it would do him no harm. On the other side he emerged unscathed to find a racing suit neatly folded atop a table fashioned from the detached hood of a racing machine. He donned it, careful not to spit himself on the spiked shoulder pads and elbow guards. He was then given a glass of strong spirits, foul with the tastes of ashes and charred synthetic leather. This draft symbolized the bitterness of ultimate defeat, a flavor he must do his upmost to avoid ever tasting again. Last, Falcon himself pushed a helmet down over his head, careful not to catch Alucard's long hair in the seal.

A short walk through a nearby doorway brought them face to face with a shrine. Surrounded by burning candles and neon lights, stood a tall statue on a pedestal—depicting a warrior garbed in the same style of protective suit everyone present wore. The figure brandished an old-fashioned plasma carbine in one gloved fist. The face was invisible behind a full-face black visor, it's white racing helmet decorated by lines of red.

Here was the shrine of the Mach Rider, the foremother of all F-Max and F-Zero pilots. Before one became an F-Zero racer in full, respect must be paid to the One Who Came Before All.

Lines of verse to complete the secret ceremony began to scroll down the inside of Alucard's visor, and he read them off in a steady voice. What words he spoke, and the blessings they bestowed, and the oath they compelled upon the speaker will forever be unknown to those outside the peerage of proven racers, and thus cannot be repeated here.

Alucard felt as if he existed outside of his skin, humbled and awed to be standing in the same spot, reciting the same words as Silver Neelsen, Black Shadow, Arbin Gordon, Dr. Stewart, Goroh, and thousands of other pilots living and dead. Perhaps someday soon he would be one of the masked grotesques gently abducting a neophyte into the mysteries.

When the ceremony was finished the masked pilots cheered and bore him from the shrine on their shoulders. In the moment, a fierce determination arose in Alucard that he would survive to do just that.


	15. The Long Distance of Murder

Race day.

Weather control systems ensured the south central Mute City microclimate played nice, manufacturing calm skies and low wind speeds.

Secured within the high, hardened walls of the staging area, behind five-factor security doors, each of the three entrances clogged with phalanxes of armored guards hefting military grade hardware, F-Zero racers prepared themselves for action. A pilot could be a slob or a depraved lunatic or an uncaring animal on their own damn time. Not today. This moment was special. Now had come the hour when a pilot ran all final inspections on their machine. Slack off on maintenance by a single iota, neglect thy vehicle by one degree, and it meant not only losing a means to earning a living—the forces of physics would demand one's life in retribution for such gross carelessness. Surviving a Grand Prix crash had a freakishly tiny probability for survival.

So. Triple-check every system. Every circuit, hose, rocket nozzle, magnet, drive, gear, and millimeter of armor. Nothing shorted out or blocked or unresponsive. Pilots came to F-Zero with many different philosophies and temperaments and priorities, yet each hovercar in its cradle gleamed like a polished gem. The engines purred as the computers ran them through their gears, confirming nothing knocked or sputtered. G-diffusers had to clear no less than fifty safety benchmarks.

When the work was done, each pilot stood guard against tampering and other forms of treachery. Most pilots did everything themselves. They were reluctant to trust anyone with their hyper-sonic baby, even a robotic assistant. Each hand added to the process multiplied the complexity of the situation, increased the odds for mistakes and sabotage. At home automated rigs did all the heavy lifting for maintenance and repair. On race day, pit crews were a thing of the distant past.

Pilots hopped in and out of their vehicles, too psyched to sit still. They checked display screens and paced out nervous energy. Took last minute restroom breaks. Perhaps a few said their prayers.

Amid the tumult of hype, a spot of somber vibes. At its center stood five pilots, the air around them more tense with held energy than the moments before a sky-rending Mute City cluster-storm.

Falcon waited, facing the entrance ramp, stern of mien, yellow scarf blowing in the hot exhaust smoke which swirled in serpentine coils over fueling cars and crackling plasma dynamos. At his back twenty cars waited in their docks. This muster of ace pilots comprised Falcon's brigade, James', and ten lone wolves. Another ten docks waited empty.

James McCloud had drummed up a small coalition of his own, with Mr. EAD, John Tanaka, Kate Alen, and Billy. At the moment James had concluded a rousing speech. He stepped back, making a smart salute, surrendering the spotlight to the boisterous android EAD, who led the brigade in a dance of team spirit. It seemed to involve singing arms side-to-side and taking random steps forward. EAD's rich, tinny laughter bounced off the walls. Billy was the only one digging it, thrashing through each move with an ape's unabashed ecstasy.

The ten independents holding out against the brigade debacle included Silver Neelson, hunched shivering over his cane with a wily glint in his eyes, looking to finally win one even if it killed him. Silver had no need for fads, being a true original. There was Dr. Clash, always short on money for his various research projects, Octoman, in rude health and ready to prove his success in the qualifiers was no fluke, and Leon, the lupine pilot who was a good egg once you got to know him, but he wouldn't join James McCloud in anything. If James discovered the Comet of Eternal Youth and offered Leon a cup of its meltwater, Leon would slap it back into James' face. Whatever reasons the other pilots had for standing against the prevailing trend, they kept their mouths welded shut.

If the grueling slog of training and recruitment exacted a toll on Alucard, his noble features and flawless poise betrayed no exhaustion. The skin around those sharp eyes did not puff or sink. Wrinkles had no purchase on those plains of unblemished flesh. He watched the frantic scramble around him without comment, lips set in a pensive line.

In a bid to increase his partner's chances for survival, Falcon had loaned the Blue Thunder to Alucard, a sleek prototype he'd not driven as often as he'd have liked to. The forward spoilers and rocket nose gave it a distinct profile that would catch eyes and glide through the atmosphere like a stiletto thrust into gelatin. Great handling and acceptable armor.

"The best defense is steering around obstacles. Some pilots follow Pico's example. They grow addicted to bashing their way to victory. Don't be those pilots. They rarely last long," Falcon had impressed on the demi-pire.

Captain Falcon had momentarily brought the whole pre-race party to a halt when he drifted into the staging area behind the wheel of the Neo Blue Falcon, a next-generation build of the Blue Falcon mk. 3, design and construction funded by Grand Prix prize money. A sleek raptor bill form, it's main visual difference from the previous iteration of the Blue Falcon was the jet turbines relocated from their internal housing beside the cockpit to straddling the top of the machine. An additional center fin increased aerodynamic stability. There were more subtle yet important differences from older models hidden under the hood, but all Falcon gave away to Dai Goroh and the press critters was a terse explanation of some of its more detectable qualities.

Dai Goroh squirmed on the seat of his Silver Rat, thumbs flitting over the screen of his fake-wood paneled smart deck. Filled with the restlessness of youth, he had pestered everyone present with questions about when would Dracula arrive and when would the race start. Receiving no answers he'd blown a raspberry and settled in for a long wait.

Dr. Stewart was last to finish preparing his machine, the Golden Fox. An heirloom from his late, great father, he babied the machine in excess even by the standards of hyper paranoid F-Zero pilots. The doctor used the remaining time to pack a first-aid, second-aid, and omega-aid kit into the cockpit, just in case he needed to reattach limbs or contain a pandemic out on the track.

Stewart wasn't the only one loading up. After running a bare minimum of checks on the Goose, Pico bolted in a gun rack and mounted several firearms and swords into his machine. He swaggered about, a marksman's laser rifle slung over his shell and a brace of daggers across his chest. Other pilots had been looking his way the whole time and Pico was enjoying seeing and being seen. Perhaps he wouldn't enjoy the attention so much if he could read their thoughts. No longer turtled up behind a store counter, Pico's soft, wagging beer belly was exposed for all to see.

Packing weapons wasn't against the old regulations, unless one used them while the race was in progress. The practice was an unpopular one since every extra gram was just that much more weight against the machine's top speed. Pico expected a fight, on the track or off of it.

Alucard twisted his loaner helmet back and forth, lifted it clear and reseated it. "Tsk. This armor needs proper fitting."

"Make do," said Falcon. Considering they were now lovers, he knew he should be warmer towards his partner. Pre-race pressure effected him this way. A hurricane of electricity raged within, pushing out all other concerns, leaving his mind a solid block. And on that block was carved a single word: _Yes!_

Only this time, the block mind had a crack in it. In the crack a darkness festered, and its name was Shadow Lord.

Alucard grunted, struggling to keep the crested white helmet straight on his fine boned head. Too large for him. Falcon had tried padding it out.

The plan had been to call in several favors to forge Alucard a fake license on short notice. Two days ago, an official license arrived by an official F-Zero Execution Project courier (not vampirized to their great relief). Issued to number 25, Blood Falcon's number. Complements of the committee. Another reminder from Dracula on who called the shots in this circus.

The space for the pilot's name had been left purposefully blank. Certain that the Federation Police might object to one of their own participating in the Grand Prix without explicit orders to do so, Falcon had completed the registration with a _nom de guerre_.

"What is my ridiculous alias again?"

"Famicom," Falcon answered. "It's an old tradition. Pilots who don't wish to be identified for a race assume the identity."

Assuming the identity also required donning a disguise. In addition to the helmet, Falcon had picked out grieves, spiny vambraces, a glitzy rainbow sash, and a cream cape sparkling with silver sequins. It took all of Falcon's willpower not to crack a smile at the sight of the dour Alucard affecting his customary air of goth majesty with all his blacks and silvers replaced by bright parti-colors and sparkling whites. The tall, pale stranger drew a lot of stares from the other pilots.

"I think it is a fine outfit," said an approaching middle-aged woman. Grace flowed through her every move, her face hidden behind a winged mask. A cybernetic hawk perched on her shoulder. Her outfit was flamboyant enough to beat Alucard's and Falcon's costumes and still have attitude to spare.

Alucard bowed. "I'm flattered, Lady…?"

She smirked. "Mrs. Arrow will do. It's good to see fresh talent in the race. And I sense you have a special reason for competing. All the best mystery pilots do."

"You see me clear. Might I ask what your reason is for risking the Grand Prix?" Alucard bent to kiss her proffered glove.

"The same as it ever was." She lifted her arms up, striking a dramatic pose, flourishing her hands. "I am here to deliver justice and win a big pile of credits. Any more elaboration must wait until after the race. Dinner, perhaps?"

"I'm honored. But to my regret I have other commitments this evening."

Her smirk turned rueful. The hawk shrilled a sad note. Her gaze flicked to Captain Falcon. "Ah. Well, if time frees up, the invitation remains open. And I'd be delighted if you were to bring along your… friends, as well."

Alucard bowed again, low. "I will remember. And thank you."

Mrs. Arrow moved on, winding her way towards her machine, the narrow framed Queen Meteor.

"Do you know her?" Alucard asked Falcon.

He nodded. "Making friends already. Mrs. Arrow is one of the good ones. You can trust her, probably. Off the track. On the track, she'll run you down like all the rest. It's the F-Zero way."

"Would she consider joining us?"

Falcon shook his head. "She knows we're in a brigade together. If she wanted in, she would've said so. Ever since the race claimed her husband she hasn't been the same."

As if the shared remembrance of tragedy and loss had summoned them, the grumble of an oncoming fleet of F-Zero machines in cruise gear boomed up the entrance ramp. Like a flock of black swans they floated in and neatly glided into their docks. Through the shaded windshields he could glimpse the silhouettes of Don Genie and Zoda. The brigade of Dracula had arrived, short two machines.

A strange, indescribable noise followed in their wake. No pilot or F-Zero staffer had ever heard anything like it. "Heralds of Tepes," Alucard whispered.

The swarming noise became a cloud of black bats of unusual size skirling their way into the staging area. They dimmed the lighting with the whirling canopy of their long, leathery wings. Pilots ducked for cover under cars and behind crates, some running from the building as the guards hugged the floor, heads rocking back and forth, searching for threats, bleating over their radios.

And like a howling autumn wind, the bats left by means undetectable, their gibbering song fading swiftly.

When Falcon looked down from the ceiling, the two empty docks were occupied.

The Black Sun had dawned.

No blocky hearse like what Dracula piloted at the qualifiers, the Sun was a whole other beast. The overall motif was of an outstretched claw, each talon a jet intake. Under its titanium hide five engines growled with inestimable power, their rocket spouts crafted into the howling maws of demons. Its polished black armor gleamed like an enameled ebony coffin. From the dark luster of the paint emerged lush highlights of imperial purple, and in some deeper layer still a red glare emanated. Baroque designs and murals swam through the baleful glow, traveling from the sword point nose to the tip of the bat wing fins. A skull upon a serpent's body ornamented the hood, sculpted from a lustrous red alloy. It seemed to move as one watched it, as if it were still slithering up the hood for a face-first view of the road ahead.

"Well, that certainly looks… expensive," drawled Dr. Stewart.

Dai Goroh scoffed. "Naw, that's a Death Day parade float, not a real man's car." He spat in the Black Sun's direction, but his eyes did not waiver from the majesty of its dismal gloss.

Pico drooled, eyes hooded with lust, breath panting moistly through his nasal slits. "Perrrfection. Don't think I can bear to smash it." He noticed Falcon watching. "Worry not, softback. I'm a soldier. I'll do what's necessary."

Whatever feelings and observations his father's arrival inspired in Alucard, the son of Dracula kept them private. Standing still, he watched impassive through the visor of his ridiculous helmet, like a man forced to watch idiot relatives embarrass themselves in public.

Behind Falcon someone was shouting. In the confusion following the bat colony's trespass, a news mutant had exploited a gap in security coverage at the side door. It rolled forward with inhuman haste on fleshy tank treads composed of many pseudopods. Biomechanical recording devices grew within its body like bones, or swung like pendulous antennae from its huge head. The logo of its parent news network scrolled through its skin, a living cattle brand created by chromatophore and iridophore cells. News mutants displayed the heraldry of their media corporation owners their whole lives.

It charged Captain Falcon's position at first, then broke hard right, homing in on Dracula.

"Shadow Lord, sir! Ganon News Network would like to ask you a few questions," it bellowed from all four of its lung sacs.

"Stay back, you fool." Alucard took a step forward to save the day and slammed to a halt against Falcon's arm baring the way.

"It would only roll over you," he explained. "When it comes to the news, the subject's consent is not required. Besides, these things are weaponized to defend themselves. Watch."

The news mutant chugged onwards towards the Black Sun, barking questions, camera organs straining forward. The cockpit hatch remained closed. Dracula had not yet emerged.

Undaunted, the mutant reached out and rapped the windshield. "We're very curious as to your plans for the priz-EEEEE!" It flailed and flashed red and black warnings all along its body as a dozen pale arms shot out from the shadow beneath the Black Sun and hooked their yellow talons into its psuedopod clusters. Thin the arms were, and jointed with many elbows, their horrid skin splotched with blue decay. The mutant reared back to tear free, but the talons held firm. Demonstrating terrible strength, the arms pulled the heavy news mutant down and dragged it screaming under the Black Sun. Its bulk vanished into the narrow space without raising the machine. Its shrieks cut off as the head passed into the shadow. The stench of badly decayed flesh wafted across the staging area and was gone.

The mutant would never be heard from again. No backups of its recordings, from the time it entered the building to its disappearance, were ever found.

Alucard stepped back, the disapproval in his silence a heavy bar laid across Falcon's shoulders.

"Guess I should've let you try," said Falcon. He didn't sound sorry. He wasn't sorry.

Dai Goroh's eyes looked fit to roll out of his skull. The doctor stared on in sick fascination as Pico grunted, swaying his terrapin head and muttering under his breath.

Another machine rested in the dock beside the Sun. The White Cat, painted white and lavender and streaked gray with hard use. Jody's machine. No need to bother with infrared mode or any other spectrum settings. Federation designed and built, the White Cat was well shielded against probing. Nothing for it then but to walk over and say hello.

He took two steps forward. Alucard's cool hand squeezed his shoulder. Falcon patted it, gently pried him off. "Trust me."

Falcon crossed the no man's land between the rows of cars. He did not look back, but could feel every eye in the room upon him. No one shouted for him to turn back. No one ran out to stop him.

Close in, Jody's silhouette became visible through the windshield. Falcon knocked. The hatch released, rose with a hiss.

There she was. Whole, if a bit pale. Not so much reclining as draped over her seat, she stared straight ahead. Beyond her usual ace combat pilot aloofness, she had ascended to the austerity of ice.

"Hey, Jody."

"Captain." Her gaze remained fixed on the middle distance.

"Am I to understand you're still set on running with the leech and his merry crew?"

Her head slumped forward. If not for the sensitive, context-smart audio pickups in the helmet, he might not have heard her too quiet voice. "Looks like you got your wish, Capt'n. I've returned to the race."

Falcon had expected bad news. Expected to hear things which would upset him. But there it was, old words spat back into his face. Felt, then, the cold, floating sensation of the wheel gone dead in his hands, the Blue Falcon out of his control and drifting towards destruction, a sensation familiar from his nightmares.

Some part her, maybe all of her, was still in there. The same memories, but was it the same woman? If Jody was still in there, and she was a vampire, what did that mean?

"Yeah. But not by your own choice. How much control does he have over you, Jody? How much do I have to hurt him to make him let you go?"

Dripping languor, she reached up, palm rasping over her long neck as she massaged it. "It's not that simple. I know what he's doing to me. And I don't feel like stopping it. Can't see a reason to stop it. Beyond that… he's told you what you need to do, if I have to live how you want me to."

Hauling on the throttle, tearing the wheel off its column. The buttons, the clutch, they do nothing. Flooding with useless anger, Falcon forgot himself just long enough to bitch.

"When I dared you to collar him first, this isn't what I had in mind."

"Good luck," Jody murmured. The windshield hatch began to lower. Falcon grabbed the edge and pried it back open, its motors whining.

"Jody. Come over to my side. Or call it in for today. They'll give you a bye. I'll make sure they will. You don't have to do this."

At no time throughout this exchange had her eyes flicked in his direction. "You first. Maybe tonight's the night you run out of laters."

Forcing his jaw to unclench, Falcon bit out each syllable. "Don't advice me, I won't advice you."

The hand of Dracula closed over his forearm, squeezed. One instant, Falcon had stood alone. The next, the vampire was there. No door opened, no rush of displaced air, no sound of boot sole on the floor. There, as if he'd always been there. Dracula dug the nails in, pulled with a terrible strength. But the arm of Falcon would not be moved.

"Impressive," said Dracula, sounding as if he meant it. "Yet futile. I believe the lady has made her intentions plain."

He tried again. "Jody." She would not look up.

Dracula laughed. "You embarrass yourself. And don't forget, we have an agreement." He leaned in close, the next words just for Falcon. "We both know the secret source of your strength won't allow you the dishonor of breaking your word." He let go, and Falcon released the hatch, allowing it to seal closed.

"Now, if it was me who powered you…" Dracula turned Falcon to face his car. Something in his voice crawled into the tunnels of Falcon's ears, like parasites eager to burrow there.

The sepulchral light of the Black Sun illuminated new possibilities. They poured into Falcon's brain through the holes of his eyes. Images that swayed and beckoned.

Doubts crowded in. Had the vampiric versions of Goroh and Blood Falcon changed fundamentally from their old selves? If anything, they had become truer, purer, closer to an ideal version of themselves. Dracula held out his hand, palm open in invitation. His lips parted, as if he would say more, yet he hesitated, having just discovered the blade of a longsword thrust through his forearm.

"You challenged us to a _race_ , father," growled Alucard.

Shadow Lord smirked, and pulled his arm off the blade. "More than a mere race. F-Max, F-Zero... After today the event will earn a new name. A new name for a new era. I've come to change the game."

Falcon jumped up onto the hood of the nearby Black Bull and roared. "No one came here for speeches. You got something to say, then you say it out on the track. Out there we speak in velocity and crunching metal. You wanna talk big, you earn the right. The hard way. You want to change the game? You don't know the game, Vlad. You'll never know F-ZERO until you face us out there. All else is pissing against the wind, and brother, I am the wind."

He stormed back across the no man's land, Alucard his trailing shadow. No one had applauded. No thumbs up or hell yeahs. All the other pilots had found something in their machines to keep them busy.

Dr. Stewart was chatting up Carmilla. He stooped over, peering into the eye holes of her iron mask, tutting over the trickle of blood always dribbling from one socket or the other. "Try swabbing with this twice a day, morning and evening. Here, let us exchange contact information. I very much think we need to monitor your condition closely. Perhaps a follow up appointment tomorrow night?"

"Only… if you pay for dinner," Carmilla cooed. "A late dinner." She clasped the hand with which he offered the medicated swabs between her own. Her fingers were webbed, delicate, and tipped with long talons.

"But of course. I know some rather choice holes-in-the-wall that would offer us the privacy we need to discuss further treatment." Perfectly smooth. Age hadn't slowed his game. Falcon hoped it hadn't slowed his driving either. He pried the good doctor away before Carmilla could reveal what lay behind her mask, pulling Stewart back to the Golden Fox.

"Don't get distracted. We got a race to win before you take on any new clients."

Dr. Stewart nodded, frowning. "About the decontamination we discussed earlier… Have arrangements been made for the HQ?"

"Don't worry. An old acquaintance of mine is on it. Made sure he has the stuff you told me to give him. It'll be—"

Horns bleated, lights flashed in several wavelengths, and tremors pulsed through the floor in a coded series. It was the final warning before the race began, the signal to load up and move out. Pilots began donning their helmets and jumping into their machines. All chatter and people watching ceased.

Falcon looked over his small brigade. Half hard bitten old hands, half mouth-breathing babies. He swallowed hard on the Dracula given doubts rising like acid indigestion in the back of his throat. They would win, if he had to personally carry each one of them over the finish line himself.

"You guys better buckle your chinstraps. This is where the fun starts."


	16. Interlude III: Vampire Killer

Wolf O'Donnell scowled at the pyramid of fresh, licked clean skulls before him and reflected on where he'd gone wrong.

After the war, he'd dissolved Star Wolf and retired from the mercenary life. Found a new life in porn streaming, popping knot into barely legal twinks sporting pointy Hylian ears, angel wings, and clown hair dye jobs. The Smash Tournament mega-industry had spawned a seedy underbelly to rival Mute City's, a fertile breeding ground for a diverse and plentiful crop of smut as varied and immense as the multiverse. Wolf had been nominated for the Super Smashing Society's S-Tier Daddy Award five times, won it thrice.

While establishing himself as Smash Smut's top gray muzzle stateswolf, Wolf had also maintained strong connections to the defense industry and thus it was child's play to throw together a private security firm. Stalkers and crazies and bigots were a common nuisance for the Smash porn professional community, and the need for security was strong. He and his new peers were all the safer for this symbiosis. Best of all, Wolf kept his paws clean behind a desk, delegating the grunt work to the young who still thirsted for blood and could do fine work on four hours of sleep.

Shit was well and truly together for ol' Wolf O'Donnell. Staying slim for work meant he was eating better on top of all the exercise. Counseling and mental health therapy provided him the tools for dismantling his crippling obsession for Fox McCloud. It'd taken months, but he'd managed to screw his head on straight. Bank accounts flush with credits for the first time in forever and he'd never starve with a lifetime's supply of 'meat' to eat. It was the good, soft life of pleasure and taste he'd earned three times over.

So why the hell was he here on this stupid bug hunt, crouched in the flooded basement of F-Zero Execution Project HQ, the slithering of creeping vampires drawing ever closer, and him down to just his trusty blaster?

"Captain—fucking—Falcon."

Callin' in that old favor, he'd said. It'll pay pretty good and you must be getting bored, he'd said. Your last likely chance to be a hero, he'd promised. What nettled Wolf the most was the last bit—that he'd fallen for his cubhood dream of playing hero, even just slightly. Clawed up, separated from his crew, and lost in a nest of gore starved horrors, he was really getting to savor the heroism. How did Fox put up with it? Oh, it was probably different for him. All glory and lollipops and star stickers for golden child Mc—no, no stop it. Wolf bit into this own arm, not too hard, just enough to pinch some sense back into his dizzy head. He listed off his ten most favorite things to eat, just as his therapist had trained him to do. By the time he'd ran down the list, all trace of the fuzzy little snot had been cleared from his thoughts.

Tick tick, click click, lick lick, ears twitched with the sound of vamps closing in.

The hover lamp floating over his head flickered. "Stop that." He tapped it, annoyed. These things were supposed to have a lifetime warranty. And he only had the one. Its light weakened, then returned to normal in time to illuminate a pair of pale faces flashing through the darkness. Their smiles widened impossibly wide, a hundred teeth uncovered by their retracting lips, tongues longer than Leon's, snaking out to scent his blood. They in turn smelled of other people's blood and nothing else.

Letting out a puppy's startled yip, Wolf fed them laser death. The vamps tumbled back, twitching and sizzling, arms and legs curling up like dead cockroaches. Would they stay dead? Wolf wasn't so sure. For the ones he'd frosted so far results had proven… inconsistent. The brief Dr. Stewart had provided was vague on certain points. Best to make sure.

Wolf dug around in his utility belt until he'd found the toothpicks. Vintage, carved from real birch wood, bought by his father years ago at outrageously inflated price. They'd cost five times as much on the black market now. Dad had passed them down to his son as valuable antiques to sell off if times got tough. Time felt real tough at the moment, and these pleasant smelling splinters had come in clutch. Thanks, Dad.

Wolf gingerly knelt down, always glancing about to make sure there weren't more about to pounce, and carefully skewered each vampire through the heart with a toothpick, like spearing together the galaxy's most disgusting club sandwiches. He used the same one for each, then put it in the pouch assigned for used ones. Hey, maybe vamp blood would make these picks all the more valuable to the right collector.

The way ahead looking clear, Wolf loped down a likely looking service tunnel, hoping for a way out. The hover lamp kept pace, and he was shamefully grateful for its presence. These things saw better in the darkness than he did. Had a keener nose for blood, too.

He sniffed the air as he ran, hunting the four crew mates he'd scrounged up for this shindig. With any luck Leon and Panther had finished planting their share of the bombs. Assuming they survived.

The tunnel opened up into… it couldn't be called a cave or an expansive room. It was a _space._ The air smelt stale like a long-sealed room, yet no boundaries spared the eye from endless nothing except for a gray stone bridge stretching off into purple haze. Dark mists drifted through the air, steadily thickening the further out one gazed, until the far distance shaded to opaque. Despite this visual hindrance Wolf could smell the distance. Alien scents rode the subterranean breeze. The open air above and below stretched beyond the basement's depth and higher than the HQ's roof. This wasn't a hologram or mirror trick.

"Ah, great. Impossible space. I'm gonna wake up tomorrow with a headache."

The misty air ate his voice like sound insulation foam. And then, somewhere far away, at the edge of hearing, a voice repeated his words, in a slow, savoring cadence. A voice warm with want.

Hackles well and truly raised, Wolf prowled along, picking with care each step over the moss garlanded stones. Every so often shapes would approach in the mists, stopping short of visibility, their immense and indefinite outlines unkind to mortal minds, only to recede with the sighing hiss of the oceans rasping away the land. Skeletons of enormous snakes or dragons swam the lower airs, winding their way around the bridge's support pillars. They seemed to be hunting for something, and Wolf was afraid it was him.

Further on and in, colossal statues reared from the fog. Set atop square pedestals to either side of the bridge and spaced in no discernible pattern, the sculptures depicted skeletal remains of beings roughly anthropomorphic in form. Each knelt on one knee, skull bowed, in repose, submission, or exhaustion—the emotional impression received differed every time Wolf looked. In every clawed right hands, a scythe, blade tip pointed the way back as if to warn travelers to reconsider their route.

All along the span, Wolf keenly felt the absence of a pack. There should be other warm bodies in a ring about him, not this endless, unquiet void. His breath fogged in the chill damp. When had it become so cold? He shouldn't be here. He should be back at the studio, prepping for his next two feature vids, _F-Smashing the Angel_ , and _World of Light-skinned Swordsmen_ , not dangling his ass into the wind of an eldritch dimension. Pulling out would be the smart thing to do, but he was a professional and he'd taken Captain Blueballs' creds.

Drip drip, drr drr, vooom voooomh went the emptiness, haunting ears folded back. Add to this, faint creakings of frantic harpsichord music teased his hearing. Someone was really pounding on that poor thing. Wolf tried to trace the music but direction had little meaning on the bridge to nowhere.

A howl split the air, and goddess, did the surprises never end—it wasn't his.

On a monolith closer to the bridge, in the shadow of the grim effigy at its crown, eyes burning with a jaundiced glow swayed to the edge of light. There skulked a hungry shape, a nightmare reflection of Wolf's own self. A version of him weened in a universe bereft of sanity and joy and pack acceptance. Slavering, fangs bared, the beast walked on hind legs. He was a wolf, both like O'Donnell and not. Intelligent, yet mad with hunger. A rusty iron growl pushed out between clenched teeth. Less a threat display and more a pronouncement of desire.

"Slow your roll, brother. There's bound to be easier meals elsewhere." Wolf's hand eased towards his blaster. Reconsidering, he relaxed his arms. Keep the muscles loose. Be ready to spring. A blaster shot might not put this bad boy down, and there'd only be time for one. A more paws on approach was called for.

In a whirl of spittle and loose flying fur, the mad wolf-man took a running lunge. He had plenty of velocity to clear the distance.

Wolf hauled ass over what little runway was available and jumped to meet his feral echo midair. A split instant before impact, Wolf activated his Wolf Flash rig. In a blaze of purple laser claws and with a kick of anti-grav thrust, he juked, then scratched up Other Wolf like a holiday ham. The man-wolf ate the damage like a champ and came back with a dragon punch. A gen-u-ine, fist enveloped in an aura of orange glowing chi, Dragon Punch. A for real furry Ryu up in here. The punk was lucky Ken Masters wasn't here to see this. He'd sue. In any case, the blow sent spots of black dancing in Wolf's eyes and slapped his lungs half empty. Spacing to avoid counterattack proved useless. This freak had a long reach. Wolf ate several more jabs before he even figured out what was going on.

Smarting in ego as much as soft tissue, Wolf activated the Flash again, boosting back towards the bridge to recover. This was no Smash arena with playful artificial physics. No extra jumps here. He landed two seconds before the wolf-man smacked his stomach into stony brink.

Long claws scrabbling at the lip of the bridge for purchase, the man-wolf managed to cling on. Wolf dashed to the edge and slashed down with both hands, full strength. His opponent took all eight laser claws to the face and popped off the bridge. He fell into the misty abyss with a fading howl, vanishing from sight a second later. Wolf reckoned this was the first time his Smash Bros edge guarding skills had served him outside the games.

He rose, several joints popping. "Feh. Useless."

As if he'd passed some kind of test, the mist thinned ahead, a red door with a modern exit sign resolving from the murk. Wolf almost sobbed in relief. There had been no way of telling how much further on the bridge stretched on, or if it even had an end.

On the other side the door, a courtyard open to the sky, located somewhere center of F-Zero HQ. Wolf stepped onto the manicured grass and breathed deep. Never had the filthy, disease ridden air of this shithole city taste so wholesome going up his snout. The orange glow of smog choked sunlight was achingly beautiful.

A long, reptilian form uncurled from behind a granite obelisk employee memorial. Leon Powalski staggered up and dumped an armload of Dr. Stewart's patented omni-sterilization dispensers at Wolf's boots. "These things proved nearly useless. They're just incendiary grenades packed with iodine beads." His combat outfit hung off him in shreds, though his scales seemed to have survived the talons of the vampires mostly intact.

"About time you showed up, boss. We were just about to leave without you," said Leon.

"I got held up by… never mind. We?"

Leon pointed to another entryway, where Algy the overgrown lemur did a monkey dance atop a barricade of charred vampire corpses. In each monkey fist he gripped a splintered table or chair leg, broken off of some rich board member's authentic wood furniture ensemble.

Eyes bugging from his tiny head, Algy flailed the viscera soaked clubs in his direction. "Eeehehehehe, the stakes have never been higher. Get it? See, I have these stakes, and I'm up here, right. I'm memeing so hard right now."

Wolf squeezed shut his eyes. He just got so tired, sometimes. Growing old sucked dead donkey testicles.

"Keep it up." Wolf turned back to Leon. "Any sign of Panther or our softskin contractor?"

Leon shook his wide head. "Nope. Between me and Algy, all our explosives are planted."

Wolf nodded. "Finished mine up too. We stay here any longer and these things will be wearing our hides. Time to cut our losses and hope three-quarters done is done enough."

Of course, Wolf's hover lamp was the only surviving unit they had between the three of them. Walking single file, they left the courtyard, abandoning weak daylight for the living darkness of the HQ interior. Destination: east side entrance, the agreed upon meetup spot.

Some offices were fetishistically clean, others were shambles of shattered furniture, pools of dried blood, and flickering light fixtures dangling from the ceiling as ominous growls and the grating of teeth on bone leaked from behind closed doors. The trio of mercenaries padded on quietly, blasters and omni-sterilization dispensers in hand.

Past the point of no return the hover lamp flickered, then expired, leaving them to total darkness, stranded in the performance testing lab. Wheeled tool cabinets and engine stress test arrays and crash tunnels and diagnostic computers made traveling in a straight line impossible. Fortunately, they could rely on their sense of smell to locate one another.

Not so fortunately, abhorrent absences of smell crowded thick around them, signaling trouble had arrived in numbers. More vampires.

Whisp whisp, rustle rustle, crick crick went the silk ties and billion credit blazers and child-skin shoes of the stalking vampires as they closed in. The F-Zero Execution Project committee had arrived.

"They surround us, boss," whispered Algy.

"Circle up, back to back," snarled Wolf. No need anymore for quiet. "Don't go easy."

Wolf pulled the pin on his sterilization dispensor and chucked. Then he commenced squeezing blaster trigger. By laser fire, by the flash of explosives, they glimpsed the lab writhing floor to ceiling with the spidery creeping of well dressed nosferatu. Claws outstretched. Wide, red smiles. The hiss of hungry vipers content no longer to carve out their pound of flesh analogously.

With his last breath, Wolf cursed Falcon.

Glass shattered. The vampires halted, a rustle that traveled the whole room.

At the opposite side of the lab a red torch flame bobbed. More glass shattered, and blue flames roared up from the floor to sputter out a second later. The vampires emptied from the lab, muttering their own curses, some hissing agony. Ordinary smells rolled back in, including the new scent of spilled water and human sweat. The bursts of blue fire and tinkling glass wound a serpentine trail to Wolf's position.

By the inconstant light of a makeshift torch Wolf beheld the face of the human woman he'd hired to tag along on this bug hunt. She'd sold her services as a specialist on "parabiological infestations," and right then and there she'd earned her pay and a big fat bonus besides.

"Follow me if you want to survive this."

She turned away. Wolf tapped her shoulder, bringing her up short.

"Hey, first I'm gonna need you to show us your teeth." She smelled normal enough, but a merc only lived as long as he had by taking nothing for granted.

Heaving a tired sigh, she about-faced and pushed up her lip. Normal human canine teeth.

"Sorry. Have to be sure."

"Understandable."

Soon, the vacancy of odor, the crawling chill on the nape of his neck returned. The vampires hadn't gone far. They moved alongside the small huddle of mercs, waiting for an opening. Growing hungrier. He could _hear_ their thirst. Wolf hoped his specialist had another trick in store for the moment when these leech scumbags gave into their cravings. Every step was taken in terror of transitioning into another extra-dimensional space.

In the corridor connecting out of the laboratory department, they ran into a familiar face. Leaning against the curving wall, arms crossed, tail gently swaying, Panther Caroso reclined in style.

"You boys took so long I had time to catch some beauty sleep," he purred.

"Thank the Stars. C'mon, Pan, we're getting out of here. I don't even care if you planted all your explosives."

Panther fell in line, with the woman and her dripping torch taking point. Their journey took them through another cubical wasteland, spotlessly clean and crypt silent. Caroso and Leon fell into their favorite pastime of verbal dueling.

Leon opened with, "Beauty sleep, eh? Sure is big ol' fraidy cat of you to hide until the action's all over."

"Self-care is a concept beyond reptilian kind's powers of comprehension, I'm sure. A few hours under a heat lamp, sung in a heap of wood shavings and your own dung is all your kind needs. Beauty takes work."

"Oh, you work double overtime. When it comes to looks, you try reeeal hard."

" _Pffft_. Judging from the state of your dress, the only tryhard here is you."

"Sure, sure, whatever you say, whiskers. Panther, you're the biggest pussy I know."

"Quiet," Wolf said, low and cold. Blessed quiet ensued, but the silence around them deepened, took on character, menacing more than any half-heard scrape.

"Exit should be just ahead," said the specialist. She guided them through another doorway, into a wide, open space. Tiled floor, tables and chairs pushed back against the walls. Looked like the commissary dining hall, though Wolf smelled nothing but several-day-old spilled blood.

A ways in, every hair on his body pricked up. This is where it happens, Wolf realized too late.

The vamps swarmed from the darkness. The stamp of many feet, the rustle of many clothes, the scream of many throats overwhelmed the senses. They were answered with blue fire and laser beams and dull splinters. Another sanitary grenade popped off. Events decohered from any discernible sequence.

"Back-to-back!" Wolf howled. The woman and the lemur stuck to his side. Two backs. Where was Panther, Leon?

"B-boss…"

Wolf spun around to see Panther pulling his snout away from Leon's neck, a bleeding chunk of lizard flesh in his jaws.

A second wasted gaping in horror and shock, and then Wolf blasted Panther straight in the heart. The big cat didn't even flinch. Leon dropped to the floor, shuddering, eyes shrinking into his head.

"No no, that will not do, sir. I am no longer mortal," said Caroso with a feline trill.

"Why, damnit? How could you?" Wolf asked, as if he didn't already know.

"Beauty such as mine deserves to live forever." Velveteen paws clamped down on Wolf's shoulders, claw tips digging in through his shirt. "Do not worry, you need not share my glorious curse. Close your eyes and say goodnight, captain."

Wolf groped for the toothpick pouches, discovered they'd been slashed open, the wooden treasures spilled into the dark. Jaws wide and swallowing, closing in. Rows of perfect white fangs glowing in the dark where all he saw. Until a double-headed axe sank quivering into Panther's face. An honest, no-kidding tree chopper! Caroso curled away, yowling, pale flames consuming his lithe, supple frame. In a second nothing remained of Panther but some hairy cinders. The specialist grabbed Wolf by the tail and tugged with all her might. "We are leaving!"

She carved a path through hell. By the time Wolf relearned how to breathe, the muggy heat of a Mute City day lapped over his fur. Algy had survived as well, bent over and panting.

Wolf shook his head clear. "Damn it! Panther has—had big fangs naturally. I couldn't tell them from the vampire fangs humans grow!"

"But Wolf, you got long fangs too." Algy raised a blaster in a jittery double-hand grip. "Sorry, Wolfie, but we can't be sure."

"Yes we can." The specialist produced a cross-piece of wood, one arm longer than the other, and proceeded to moosh it into Wolf's snout.

"Ow! What the hell?"

"Crucifix," she said, as if that explained anything. Into the awkward silence, she added, "If you were a vampire, there'd be a violent reaction to contact. No reaction means you're safe. Probably."

Under her own strength, she had hauled a trio of vampires squirming and kicking out into the day, lassoed together by a long chain. By now the blood drinkers had charred and crumbled to ash under the direct sunlight spilling through the Mute City raceway and its cleared patch of sky far above. The specialist untangled the chain, which turned out to be all of a single piece running from a fancy grip and handguard, like the kind found on swords. Her weapon of choice was a… chain whip. A strange but evidently effective weapon.

Wolf smiled, luminous inside with gratitude. He moseyed up. "Fresh meat, you've impressed me, and that isn't an easy thing to do. Forgive me for forgetting, but what was your name again?"

She looped up her whip, eyeing him back with a measuring glare. "Belmont. Sonia Belmont."

"Sonia. Beautiful name." Wolf made a friendly growl in the back of his throat. "Say, you wouldn't happen to enjoy either Smash Bros or hardcore pornography, would ya?"


	17. The Meaning of Truth

Zero hour. Killing time had arrived.

F-Zero Machines rolled off the dropship tongue, meek and careful as they took their designated positions before the starting line. Each vehicle an explosion held prisoner inside a candy bright metal shell, fueled, optimized, ready to scorch the wind. G-diffusers powered down until the chassis nestled the track surface. The pilots, whether relaxed or tense as cables under strain, waited in their cockpits for the count of three.

The Mute City circuit hung like a steel ribbon in the green sky. Its materials and electromagnets were fashioned from well guarded Execution Project secret formulas. The high-power winds at this altitude should have folded the track over on itself and scattered the heavy metal scraps over the business district in a ninja star rain. Captain Falcon could think of more than one corporate high-rise well deserving of such a sprinkling. Thanks to protective force shielding, which allowed not so much as a stray breeze inside the race zone perimeter, the track enjoyed greater stability than if it were grounded and subject to the small tremors which constantly riddled the planet's surface.

This year they had gone with a classical Mute City course layout. Rather than a warped figure eight, or a bland oval, the track overhead view resembled a mangled hairpin, complete with a nasty pair of tight ninety-degree turns. Nowhere near as lethal as a Fire Field or a White Land course, but not a sleepy cruise through the park, either.

Falcon felt light, ready for speed. He anticipated inertia's crushing press, its confirmation of his existence.

Let the Grand Prix begin, let the vehicular combat commence—anything to shake loose the sick unease which clogged his veins like cholesterol. He'd never been this full of doubt before, not even as a race virgin. The Falcon's presence roiled in his gut like an anger with no target to throw itself against.

 _You no longer have what it takes to shake the dust from my bones, old man… They'll forget you, too._ Undead words. Like the man who had spoken them, they refused to die.

Captain Falcon did not fear losing. He feared he was no longer worthy of winning. And if he failed here, more than his reputation would die. He glanced down the line, eyeing Jody's White Cat.

* * *

High above the Mute City grid, Alucard awaited destruction inside a hundred-million credit racing machine. Parked far back from the starting line, he felt rather like sitting balanced on the edge of a precipice. The Mute City track stretched gray into the white, hazy distance. A road to nowhere and soon to become a blood soaked proving ground.

Alucard judged his odds this day to be poor. Despite the rigorous training under Falcon's tutelage, a frantic half-week was insufficient to acquire the nerve-deep understanding and unthinking reflexes an experienced racer would possess. He struggled to envision surviving into lap two.

This was not his world.

The serious racing machines arrayed behind the pole position oppressed with a collective presence measurable by the ton. Inside each was a savvy veteran with skilled appendages on the wheel and a killer's lust gleaming in every eye. Yet, none of them could compare against his father for appetite.

Alucard watched the Black Sun through the forward-view camera and wondered if the machine was alive in the same way that Castlevania was a living thing. It sat in the sunlight like a shadow cast by an object no mortal eye could see.

Would the life of a sports celebrity satisfy Dracula? What profit, this exercise? He didn't need money. And if the challenge of F-Zero lured him so, then why vampirize and enthrall the Execution Project Committee and through their borrowed power remake the rules, rendering an already lethal contest into a complete bloodbath?

Ah, perhaps in that old idiom lay the answer. Bloodbath. Vampires could never change, not really. In the end, it always came down to blood.

Plasma engines whined as their output levels spiked. Numerous mysteries would, in less than a quarter hour, resolve into at least a few facts. The countdown display drone lowered into view above the starting line. Alucard flailed about, late to initiate the startup sequence as Falcon had taught him.

The number three spun onto the drone's screens. Alucard fired the plasma engines, then activated the g-diffuser. Falcon had kindly customized its settings beforehand, favoring a slightly sub-optimal top speed for better handling. The Blue Thunder thrummed with contained power, lifting a few vital centimeters off the track.

The other machines likewise levitated, blue fires and yellow flames fuming at their engine nozzles, each vehicle shaking in place with banked fury. Super-jet turbines sucked in air with a rising shriek. The sounds filled Alucard's brain and crowded the breath from his lungs. The precipice beckoned, gripping him by the lapels and pulling him towards the fall.

**3…**

Alucard gritted his teeth. "Mother, forgive me." He gripped the steering wheel tight.

**2…**

Falcon pumped his fists and shouted defiance to the universe. Furious joy consumed him.

**1…**

Dracula finished chanting the second phase of the spell. All done but for the bleeding. He spared a thought for his servants. At this moment, Medusa and the Creature would be boarding the star freighter, bound for the outer stars.

"Lisa, forgive me. Perhaps, in this century, I can finally begin living to your standard."

**GO!**

* * *

Lap 1

* * *

Inertia ripped away like a shroud of cherished illusions peeling back from a hard truth. Speed, hot and liquid, washed over Falcon as he slammed the accelerator to the floor. Steered with confidence, the Neo Blue Falcon soared serene among this flock of killers.

The culling began immediately. Even before they rounded the first, softest turn of the track, the main crowd fell to slamming each other around like careening marbles poured down a storm drain. Pilots wielding thicker armor bashed aside the lighter models as they sped by. Spin attacks threw cars into the barrier fields, scorching paint and draining shields. The centrifugal force of a spin attack would liquefy a man at these speeds but for the miracle of g-diffuser tech, which spared a pilot the harsher consequences of physics.

There was no time to babysit allies. To spare a thought for Alucard was an unaffordable luxury. If he'd followed Falcon's advice and hung back at the start, then he'd avoid the worst of the melee.

Falcon smashed a featherweight speedster aside as it rocketed past, attempting to steal his position. Might've been Lily Flyer's Bunny Flash. The Neo Blue Falcon wove around the second corner with shield gauge nearly full. The air screamed over its shell, unable to find purchase.

Below, the tawdry sprawl of Mute City blurred into gray circuit board slurry. The flowing river of steel over which he floated became the only terrain that mattered. Electricity ran sour sweet over Falcon's tongue.

The Black Sun glided from the fray like laughter in the dark. Unscathed, Shadow Lord claimed 1st place. Mr. EAD and Dr. Stewart swerved in behind, fighting for 2nd, hunting for an opening to steal the lead.

Falcon coasted behind, successfully baiting whoever was in 5th place to slam into his tail, boosting him close to the Golden Fox. Just like old times. He swallowed the rising nostalgia and steered the Blue Falcon through the 90-degree turn with minimal skidding. In a second, maybe two, he would batter past the chonky Great Star and then, the flock's numbers thinned by predation, there would be space to maneuver. Then the real race would begin.

They entered the zigzagging neck of the track, across from the starting line. Here a pair of jump boards offered the temptation of a high flying shortcut to the reckless. Beyond this passage lay the wide section where rough patches could sap momentum and explosive mines blast away shield energy. Past this gauntlet, the course looped vertically several stories high. Maintain sufficient velocity while racing upside down or else kiss the city streets below. The loop could either be a space to enjoy a breather or an opportunity for forerunners to jostle for rank before confronting the large hairpin turn and the homestretch.

Falcon hung back, watched EAD clumsily attempt to bully Shadow Lord while Stewart lurked nearby, waiting to take advantage of any opening the Great Star might create. Into this relative quiet sped the White Cat.

A flash of white light. The Great Star and its android pilot veered away, a cage of twisted metal and fire. The g-diffuser cut out, releasing its magnetic tie to the track. The machine's nose dug into the barrier, flipping the remains of Mr. EAD over the edge. At least his memory core would survive, probably.

Stewart dropped back, the force shielding on his lightly armored Golden Fox blinking off and on, nearly spent.

Finely honed instincts prompted Falcon to tug the wheel hard left, even though he would veer away from the inside track and lose sacred seconds. Another flash blanked out the windows in white light.

The Neo Blue Falcon recoiled off the track barrier. Blinking the stars out of his eyes, he tasted blood. Something in his mouth bitten open.

Jody and her White Cat loomed up in his rear-view feed, the weapons pods concealed in the nose now irised open. The Cat tracked the Falcon's every move as Jody secured weapons lock.

In useless agitation Captain Falcon thumbed the red button of the boost trigger—deactivated until Blue Falcon crossed the line into lap two. Trapped between a hungry darkness ahead and an annihilating light closing behind, the raptor soared alone in the gangrene heights of the Mute City sky.

Falcon slid his boot onto the brake. Slim chance this would work, the timing would have to be perfect. He stilled his mind to await the plucking of instinct's strings, an instrument strung and tuned by the inherited expertise of all the Falcons who had come before. By the humming of those faint, sublime chords he would know when the instant was right.

Instinct's harp languished unplucked.

Jody pulled the trigger.

John Tanaka in his Wonder Wasp slid into the line of fire. Falcon would never learn why. A final act of heroism? John striving to impress the woman he'd pined for all these many years? The Wonder Wasp vanished in a gush of smoke and steam, flaming parts of the machine pinwheeling over the track barriers. In life, Tanaka had lacked the courage to ask Jody if she liked him. Now he had as much of an answer as he would ever need.

Weapons on the track. Machines destroyed. Pilots slain. Race results once certain and precise down to a single molecule were now clouded by controversy. Surely the F-Zero Execution Committee would shut the whole thing down. Power off the track and cars, cut network transmission.

Yeah, that's what people on the outside would think. Insiders knew better. The Project committee had been monsters before they were vampires.

No flag dropped, no alarms sounded, and no indication came from the circuit control team that they were doing anything to halt the race. Track power stayed on. The machines kept racing.

Falcon spat. He was bleeding speed with all this introspection. Teeth gritted in a sneer and swallowing blood, Falcon laid the accelerator flat to the floor.

Gimmicks and cheap tricks. Dracula might've been thousands of years old but he still had some things to learn about F-Zero. The Captain was about to call class to order.

Pico in his Wild Goose and Octoman's Deep Claw sped by. The White Cat broke off from the Neo Blue Falcon to stalk after the Goose.

The Blue Falcon threaded the thin margin between the momentum draining rough and the track barriers. Taking this shortcut caught him up to the Black Sun. Shadow Lord was in the process of grating the Deep Claw into steel confetti against the rails. The shield eating barrier fields ate away at the Claw until the machine's body crumpled and the Cetapod pilot scraped away along with most of his machine. The poor bastard.

Captain Falcon inclined his head in respect to the fallen, then slammed into the Black Sun at a carefully chosen angle. The impact launched the vampire's machine nose-first into the guardrail barriers instead of boosting it.

"C'mon! Time your hobbyist ass learns how to really race," Falcon shouted as he shot by Dracula. Around the hairpin, breaking into a drift for half a second, he accelerated out of the turn and down the homestretch and over the finish line into lap two. 3rd place, with Jody and Pico ahead.

Spurning the pit stop zone, Falcon kept straight on, intent on taking 1st. And then he came to the aftermath of the starting line hostilities.

For an instant, his foot was drawn to the brake, so startling was the sight already zipping by. The opening stretch of Mute City race course was transformed into a viaduct of slaughter.

Scorched craters where plasma engines had breached mottled the gray stretch of track like the dry, smoking calderas of recently awakened volcanoes. Hovercars lay smashed and flung onto their sides like toys abused by a tantruming titan. Here and there a splash of fresh bright blood. Jagged beads of shattered carbon crystal fanned out from from tangles of singed metal and viscera.

Where the hyper-sonic pace of F-Zero usually vaporized the worst carnage off of the road by the grace of high-energy physics, the density of the mob had kept more of the mess on the track. Shadow Lord had engineered it so.

Alucard was right. His dad had wasted no time getting down to work. Shadow Lord had shut up and put up. An artist, F-Zero had become his medium, speaking through it loud and clear his dark message. He had not come to only change a game, but to close out an age and open a new era of history. A red era.

In that instant, Falcon understood a little more why Alucard was fanatical in booting his father out of the living world, age-by-age.

Falcon eyed the wrecks as he passed them by, unable to read details from the mayhem, unwilling to slow down. Was one of these Alucard?

Then the voice, _his_ voice, cleared its throat and began to speak.

Not over a radio (the Neo Blue Falcon had none), not over any comms system installed in his helmet, no. Shadow Lord spoke directly into _his mind_.

"Mister Gordon warned me of you, captain." Arbin Gordon. The Skull. "I am glad, now, that I heeded him little. In contesting you, I am truly learning how to race."

Somewhere close behind, a hundred devils sex-purred deep in their infernal throats. The event horizon of the Black Sun eclipsed the corner of Falcon's right eye. A nudge of the wheel would bring the two machines together.

Falcon snarled. The power inside joined in with a savage cry. Hot and sticky against his thigh, the Grand Prix erection which filled the right leg of his trousers now threatened to flood his boot.

"Keep your lids peeled, parasite. You ain't seen nothing yet."

Captain Falcon reached for the boost switch.

* * *

Lap 2

* * *

Accelerating, Alucard voluntarily pushed off into the open air of an infinite abyss.

Claws dug into the wheel and foot frozen to the accelerator pedal—the first lap passed in a blurred plummet of hurtling metal and jarring impacts so savage he feared his fangs would rattle from their sockets. Experience failed, training failed, instinct failed.

Racing machines like enormous steel hornets whined in a cloud about him, buffeting the Blue Thunder to the barriers, slamming the Thunder off their armored flanks until he could no longer tell up from down. Alucard hissed with fangs protruding like a rattlesnake's in impotent fury at the river of gleaming death streaming by.

Lap one's end found him crawling up on the finish line, shields low, the Blue Thunder intact by virtue of straggling in last place. He had limped through the last turn, the 'hairpin', braking to a near stop in order to clear it without further damage. How could anyone navigate such an insidious bend unscathed while maintaining such horrendous speed?

The ravaging swarm had left him well behind to buzz about the far side of the track. For the moment, he coasted alone. The pavement coursed smoothly under the Blue Thunder's nose.

Rather than take solace in the calm, an eerie sense of isolation began to overtake him. Easy enough to remain in last place, but he would not be safe until all five laps were completed, and maybe not even then. Keeping watch on all camera feeds, Alucard eased the machine into the restorative pit stop zone, curb crawling to buy time for the Thunder's shielding battery to replenish. Who cared about placing well? Staying alive that he might continue to oppose Dracula was everything.

In the warming glow of the replenishing shield gauge, there was time to relax his taut limbs. He sighed. It felt as if he'd just clawed free from beneath a glacier's crushing weight, every sinew brittle with pain.

An impact, worse than all others which had come before, slapped the Thunder out of the shield refilling field. Inertia introduced him to the cockpit wall. Blue Thunder spinning, head whirling with shock, Alucard caromed off the track barrier and skidded down the opening stretch. The HUD grew crowded with warnings. In highlighted letters, the crisis diagnostic read: High-yield Missile Impact Detected.

Down track, from around the hairpin, floated a black dot. The speck swelled into a horned blot of darkness, homing in to gore the Thunder at top speed. The Black Bull fired another micro-missile. There wasn't even time for his foot to convulse towards the accelerator.

Blinking lights from his eyes and swallowing a mouthful of blood, Alucard looked down on the Mute City course from high above as he soared over it, a fresh smoldering blemish on the track where his machine had been hovering a second ago. The Blue Thunder blared its low shield warning.

Black Shadow. Real name unknown and lost to all record. Had once been a Federation soldier, later graduating to black ops work as he accumulated accolades and a kill count. His followed the usual career of the archetype, complete with genomic enhancement programs and wetware implants. Galactic conflict slowed, and like so many other supersoldiers left idle and restless, he vanished, escaping the oversight of his handlers only to reemerge in the underworld of organized crime and illegal racing. Or so went the myth most popular among Federation agents. There were other origin stories. Many, each more lurid than the last. Some even claimed Black Shadow had been another clone of Captain Falcon, a precursor of Blood Falcon. No matter. Captain Falcon had slain Black Shadow and claimed the enormous bounty on his horned head.

Yet here he was, the unkillable Shadow cheating death once more, only this time the lackey rather than the master.

Alucard swallowed and took a deep breath. The gigapolis beyond the windshield rotated in a nauseating whirl, drawing steadily closer. He fired the boost, and set the g-diffuser to max power, just as Falcon had drilled into him for just such an emergency. The Mute City track swayed back into place beneath him, rushing up to smash him to pieces in seconds. In the last instant, the Thunder righted itself and drifted to a gentle touchdown, ready to continue the race. Thank science for advanced magnetic technology.

The Black Bull was there to greet him. It strafed the Thunder, spraying plasma fire. A round sunk into the left flank. The low shield warning's bleating increased in tempo. Catching a sound goring from the horns of the Bull would be the end. Black Shadow's machine was faster than Alucard's, and heavier. It would punch right through, and if the Thunder wasn't dashed to scrap outright, its fusion core containment would rupture and put an end to the matter.

Time to leave.

With the only brief spurt of boost he could afford, Alucard slipped through the pit stop zone for a precious margin of shield energy. The Black Bull crowded in, forcing him out. Alucard u-turned and fled down the course, hugging the inner barrier as close as he dared.

The Blue Thunder continued to shudder, the HUD blinking with yellow light. He would have to escape Black Shadow, out race him in a machine traveling over 1000 km/hr, equipped in armor which might as well be made of glass for how little shielding power it had left. Worse still, when compared to a veteran like the Shadow, Alucard was still a virgin to the wheel.

Shaken and breathing shallow and quick, a strange charge ran under his skin, numbing thought and instilling a jerky awkwardness into every muscle. Alucard felt transformed into a piece of wood, beginning to float away on a dark river of perilous circumstance. From memory ancient he recalled the identity of this strange sensation. Fear. F-Zero's novel threats had made him afraid. Reminded him of a fragility which over-familiarity with old dangers had lulled him into forgetting. Racing was beyond him. Was this what mortals felt when they dared some new venture?

The Black Bull stalked the Thunder at a leisurely distance. Black Shadow, perhaps seeing that his prey would offer flight over fight, had decided to prolong the torment. When Alucard tried breaking away too far to the right, a warning shot blistered the track to discourage any attempts at escape.

The Thunder's controls had begun to break Alucard in. He took the first three turns without loosing much speed. Falcon's merciless drilling was finally paying off.

Black Shadow harried his rear, threatening to boost into the Blue Thunder and flip it cartwheeling into a fiery crash. The Black Bull struck the Blue Thunder a blow, sending the low power warnings into their final, most frantic bleating. At least he benefited from a burst in speed, allowing him to stay twenty meters ahead of certain death.

Beyond the track Mute City sparkled almost monochromatic under the hazy green sky. The gigapolis never slept, yet from this elevation an illusion of peace draped the city, making it seem a place of rest and safety far removed from this ring of destruction on which he scurried for survival.

In the zigzag stretch Black Shadow closed for the kill. Alucard hit the jump board and the Black Bull followed suit, losing no ground.

Glum, Alucard noted he had yet to complete half the race. Who the hell thought a full five laps were necessary?

The blue gray hull of Kate Alen's Ultra Piranha came into view ahead.

The strategy that insinuated itself into Alucard's spinning thoughts was disgraceful, vile. Yet, there were no options left. A brush against anything would likely explode the Blue Thunder and Shadow could out race him while asleep. He had to stay alive long enough to see his father vanquished. Necessity demanded sacrifice. Something his father had taught him, a bitter wisdom unasked for and pushed upon him all the same.

He drew the Thunder close to Kate and hoped she would see his plight and decide to help. Or take advantage.

The rounded body of the Ultra Piranha yawed toward Alucard. He drew away, letting Kate crowd him towards the speed sapping rough patches. Distracted, Kate struck a mine and lost speed. Black Shadow sprayed her in plasma fire.

The Ultra Piranha shot ahead, its shielding badly compromised. Alucard had meanwhile entered the thin strip of normal track between the slowing rough and the sizzling guardrail. Threading this narrow corridor of safety, he reached the corkscrew faster than racing directly through the minefield. Black Shadow drew near, the superior acceleration of the Black Bull brought to bear.

Again, Alucard closed with the Ultra Piranha, questing towards its right fin. Kate responded by crowding him back. If she swatted him here, the Thunder would explode and she would enjoy a boost forward while eliminating a threat. At the same time, the Black Bull darted in to finish him off.

Alucard erred in taking the hairpin turn too fast. The guardrail fields hissed and squealed as the Blue Thunder tickled them with its wings. Not expecting a messy turn, Black Bull mistimed its charge and boosted horns first into the barrier.

A sole pip remained in the shield gauge. Alucard bared his fangs and punched the turbo boost. Flame gouted from the Thunder's nozzles for less than a second, the micro burn pushing him a fairy's breath ahead of the Piranha. The front fender of Kate's machine scraped against his exhaust ports.

Here was the gamble: Kate saw his shields were low, but she couldn't know how close to destruction he danced. She might suspect, but not know what happened if she rammed the Blue Thunder's rear. Would it crumple, shaking her for a minor time loss in exchange for eliminating an opponent, or would her ramming propel a barely intact Thunder forward with stolen speed? Alucard prayed for the latter.

Kate backed off. She decided to outmaneuver him instead, leaving the Thunder behind when he dipped into the pit stop zone past the finish line just ahead. A wise strategy, if not for the Black Bull.

Black Shadow slammed the Piranha, launching it into the barrier. He veered away to finish Kate off, battering the Piranha into the rails with such force her machine skipped the force fields twice before exploding.

Alucard meanwhile enjoyed the pit stop zone.

Until this moment, the son of Dracula believed he had centuries ago plumbed the lowest reaches of self-hate and knew its outermost boundaries in full. He had been mistaken. The bottommost floor fell away into darker, deeper depths. Agelessness had its curses. When one lived long enough, one discovered there was no ultimate bottom to evil.

* * *

Lap 3

* * *

Falcon grunted, setting his thumb against the red polymer of the boost trigger. Long past time for Shadow Lord to taste some shit better than what he was dishing out.

"How's racing without your friend riding shotgun—the ghost wearing the raggedy blanket? Winning's not so easy without him there cheating for you, I bet."

"You have daunted Death. But his reach is long, my rival, and the race is but half over."

Falcon exercised the whole of his raptorial concentration on race perfection, hugging every curve, boosting over rough patches and skipping jump boards, braking on turns with one-thirtieth of a second precision. He battled for every micrometer between him and 1st place, all while staying loose and ready for what the vampire would try next.

The Black Sun matched him down to each twitch and drift. Mines and other obstacles seemed to move aside for the dark machine. His nemesis attempted nothing else. No attack came. The track began its rise into the loop. Dracula continued to mirror Falcon's driving.

"Trying to play on my nerves? Let's see how well you copy this."

Falcon hauled hard on the throttle lever, flitting in for a second to tickle the Black Sun's rear fender with the Blue Falcon's nose as he passed by. Dracula veered right to cut him off. Falcon boosted, then slammed the barrier in excess of 1400 km/hr, rebounded to the opposite side, ricocheted off that guardrail, repeated this twice more, dancing an extra-spicy salsa around the Black Sun. A risky move, but great for escaping crowded choke points by trading an increase in speed at the cost of much shield energy. Another boost burn further fueled the fire, leaving the Sun behind on the vertical loop.

Into the next lap, Pico and Jody dueled for the lead on the opening straightaway, stealing 1st place from one another until Falcon hit the jumpboard at full turbo and soared over a portion of the track, stealing a lead less than a hovercar width ahead of them. The Wild Goose finished battering the White Cat to near shield collapse. Jody peppered the Goose with plasma rounds which fizzled uselessly against Pico's heavy armor. Unable to score a kill, Jody dropped behind. Vanished.

For a few blissful seconds, breathing became easier. They were free to _race_.

Daigoroh, an eager cutthroat like his father, rushed in from out of nowhere with the assist, slamming into the Falcon's rocket pipes.

"Thanks, kid," Falcon muttered, shooting past the course's halfway mark at nearly 2000 km/hr.

Dr. Stewart sailed an optimal course through the leaders, floating carefree into 1st, his shielding recovered. "Not for much longer." Falcon timed a boost and drew near the Golden Fox. Daigoroh and Pico hissed at his 6, hot to seize on the slightest mistake.

This was good. Falcon squeezed the wheel and breathed deep the scent of glory. For a moment he forgot the brigades. Almost forgot the shadow Dracula cast over them all. Together they lived this golden moment. F-Zero, as it too seldom had been of late, as it always should be. Captain Falcon smiled and savored it.

In the last leg of the course, just before they rounded the hairpin turn, the Black Sun dawned in their wake. Dracula would try to end it here. Grim certainty of this settled into Falcon's marrow.

No sign of the White Cat. And still no sign of Alucard. Why had he not caught up? There had been plenty of time, and they would need his strength.

There was a vain attempt to dam the disappointment, but the flood would not be contained. Self-reproach followed. Unfair, to expect so much from a protege new to the life. Yet Alucard was a warrior, and it was a warrior's business to adapt to the battle at hand. Falcon liked the man, even his vampire half. Lusted after him plenty. But here, at the end, Alucard had fallen short. Perhaps… he was not the candidate Falcon had hoped for.

No. It was Captain Falcon who had failed his student.

"You are not the first to let him down," Dracula said, the interruption scattering Falcon's thoughts. The vampire's tone was one of genuine regret, heavy as a duty which could not be set aside.

"Alucard is a singular specimen, alone in a world not built for him. Watching endless crops of human civilizations rising, then rotting down to be harrowed back into the dirt by the plow of ages. I hoped that he would, in the strange soil of some future era, take root and blossom. I had hoped you were the fertilizer which would entice him to sprout from his husk. Perhaps you might yet."

"The last person I'm gonna take couples counseling from is a mind-slaving parasite."

"Who else can advise you? You're running short of friends these days."

Antonio Guster's Green Panther swung out from behind the Black Sun and let fly a micro missile aimed at Daigoroh.

A former member of Goroh's gang, Antonio thirsted for vengeance against his former boss after Goroh stiffed him on a deal gone sour. With the old samurai's head claimed by another, Antonio had offered his neck to Shadow Lord for a shot at Goroh's son.

The Silver Rat juked the missile and paid for it by planting nose-first into the barrier. Rocked to a near stop, Dai initiated a heavy boost burn to avoid falling behind. The Green Panther swerved ahead of the Rat, cutting Dai off. Rat danced with Panther in a series of feints and dodges. Antonio had the weapons, but Dai had the moves. The two-man blood feud fell behind the race leaders as child and man-child earnestly attempted to vehicular-murder each other.

Dracula struck from behind the cover of Antonio's distraction. The Black Sun spun into the Wild Goose, kicking off a blink-fast chain reaction, bouncing off of the Blue Falcon and the barriers. Dracula seized 2nd place as he shot out of the collision combo with an explosion of stolen speed. Bastard had learned fast, pulling off the trick nearly as well as its creator.

The Black Sun rocketed past the Golden Fox into 1st and burned boost over the finish line into lap three. All five of its rocket engines trailed with streaming jets of plasma. Smoke shedding from the blue exhaust fires assumed the shapes of faces before dissipating into boiling air, their jaws unhinged with silent howling. Screaming. Each face bore embers for eyes. One resembled Samurai Goroh. Another mimicked Falcon's own likeness. Blood Falcon, if the heat of its momentary glance, undiminished by distance and a thick windshield, was anything to judge by.

Captain Falcon, Stewart, and Pico stopped sparring with each other. They closed ranks and buckled down to some serious racing. Perhaps each had seen a face they recognized in the Sun's exhaust.

More than anything, it was the threat of disgrace that sobered them up. Damned if they would let a rookie beat them on his maiden Grand Prix.

The three reluctant allies caught up to Dracula between the second turn and the third. With lips locked in grim lines and ice chips for hearts, they encircled the Black Sun. Falcon took the right, Dr. Stewart the left. Pico lagged behind, to catch their prey if he tried to brake and slip away.

For someone surrounded by masters of the art, 'Shadow Lord' betrayed no signs of distress. The Black Sun ran at a steady 1800 km/hr. It slid through air like greased photons, and after completing two laps the old vampire had come to know the track well.

Up ahead were the jumpboard and the zigzagging stretch. Falcon went into a hard burn, diving forward to position the Neo Blue Falcon between the Black Sun and the jumpboard. The Wild Goose ducked in and hammered the Blue Falcon to the side.

The way forward clear, the Black Sun soared off the jumpboard. The Wild Goose followed it into the air. Gigantic bat wings unfurled from the Sun, scooping air without tearing to shreds. Caught by this surprise slowdown, Pico collided with his target at the apex of their flight arc. Dracula's machine weighed more than the Wild Goose. Pico lost the flying sumo match and ricocheted off at a wild angle, careening too fast to course correct.

Captain Falcon watched from below, helpless to intervene as the sparks from that terrific mid-air impact snowed down around him. The Wild Goose tumbled downwards to the city grid below. Dracula landed safely, wings folded in, and began to pull away from the survivors.

Falcon and Fox closed in to attack. They couldn't afford to let this drag on any longer.

A rolling ball of red flame stole up on their six and bounced into Dr. Stewart's path. When it got near the Golden Fox the fire ball burst. Stewart swerved, avoiding the worst of the splashing flames, but the last second evasive maneuver sent him fishtailing off course, shields blinking in strain.

A crimson glint in the rear-view cam caught Falcon's eye. Dracula's backup had arrived. Carmilla, floating over the track in a platinum skull backlit with purple argon lamps, one turbine 'eye' socket oozing gore, rode to her sire's aid. Over her snail's trail of blood galloped Death upon the Pale Horse, which was, in truth, a rotting ghost horse semi-transparent and radiating a sickly gray light. The Reaper wore rusty plate mail over his rags and held his scythe like a jousting lance.

Though reality hurtled past in a drug-fueled parallax jumble, the Black Sun and the Golden Fox appeared almost stationary. Across the short, blurring distance that separated them, Falcon looked through his shaded windshield into the Golden Fox's. An understanding transmitted, between bounty hunter and physician. They did not need to directly see one another. The years had bonded them closely together in ways neither understood nor felt any inclination to examine.

As one, they eased up on the accelerator and dropped behind as Carmilla's incendiary volleys lit up the track around them. Dracula would be expecting them to ignore the goons and focus on the bigger threat. Falcon knew better. There was an order to these things. Take out the support of the limbs and the head will soon be yours.

Together they wove a helix backwards into the enemy's space. Dr. Stewart crowded Carmilla, and when she took the bait and swiped for the fragile pixie of a machine, the Golden Fox pranced out of reach. From there, Stewart would do his best to lure her over some mines.

Falcon smirked and set aim for Death. Doc was the only lady's man he'd ever known who could work the hard-to-get routine on the ladies while moving at sonic speed. For his tactic, Falcon chose the direct approach.

Turning on the Neo Blue Falcon's secret fifth engine, Falcon rammed through the ghost nag. The Blue Falcon met no resistance, passing through mount and rider like cutting through a hologram, save for hearing the chorus of whispering breezes which blow through the mausoleum of Abandoned Futures and Forsake Pasts which tumbles eternally through the void beyond the end of all Meaning. But the tip of the scythe blade which punctured the cabin with a ringing note was solid enough.

Death jerked his weapon free. A cyclone of freezing air filled the cabin. The Blue Falcon's speed dropped. Captain Falcon, hissing every filthy word he knew in three different languages, hurried to spray sealant over the breach. Puffing out steam, he wiped the frost off his helmet visor just in time to see the Reaper gallop alongside for another swipe. Falcon jerked on the steering fast enough to avoid the blade, taking some shield loss of a nearby barrier. He was badly behind 1st place.

Not knowing how to fight the ghost from inside a machine, he burned boost and caught up to the Golden Fox. Once they finished off Carmilla maybe then they'd figure something out together.

Doc had managed to lead the vampiresse over several mines. Ever the lover, he flirted with her heavier machine. Carmilla had lost the battle with her emotions, and was piloting her chrome skull like a wrecking ball, smashing into one barrier after another and falling victim to the speed sapping rough.

Falcon charged in to assist.

Dracula got there first. The Black Sun swooped in and rammed the Fox into the wall of the next turn, nearly destroying what shielding Stewart had left. Once more, the doctor was obliged to bow out.

Then it was Carmilla's turn to spin out. Someone had clocked her from behind. Shooting into the Golden Fox's place was machine 10, the Little Wyvern. The mercenary who piloted her hadn't scrupled from packing serious heat. From the back of the Wyvern James McCloud deployed a rolling mine, which the super magnet of the skull car sucked in. Carmilla evaporated into a mushroom cloud of red and violet smoke.

The brigade of McCloud was a series of carbon smudges left behind on the track. James had arrived for some payback. He beelined towards the Dark Sun, ready to unleash a cache of illegal ordinance. His machine needled the Sun's side with combat lasers as the Wyvern boosted ahead into 1st.

Something seemed to go wrong the microsecond James passed by Dracula's machine. The Wyvern deviated from its course, veering off at an odd angle. After it struck the barrier and rebounded once, the racing machine drifted a stop, the engines idling. Falcon would later learn after the race that when a rescue crew opened the Little Wyvern they found the cockpit empty save for a thin layer of sticky residue covering the seat. Lab analysis results of the residue revealed it consisted of platelets and spinal fluid and one other substance they deemed classified.

Wholly inhabiting the moment, Falcon saw what happened to his old rival's machine and did not wonder about it. Enough to know the mercenary was gone. Another part of his world vanished forever.

Death loomed in the rear camera, the hooves of the revolting steed an impossible blur, fleshless grin a yellowed promise of inevitability, scythe raised high. Down whipped the blade.

The scythe slammed to a sparking halt. Another blade had answered it. Death stared, jaw bone dropped open. A sword, glistening with white fire, held aloft in the grip of a robotic hand. The Silver Rat hovered alongside the Grim Reaper, a collapsible accordion arm extended from a side hatch from which the sword had thrust out for a timely block. The archaic weapon looked like something Alucard had lent the boy. While the Reaper hissed and whirled the scythe around to reap the son of Goroh, Dai swerved the Rat away, then darted back in, the robotic sword arm repositioning with clumsy hydraulic jerks.

Death swept down his harvesting blade. Dai was quicker. The sword, mounted on a wobbling, swaying lance of unsteady robotics, bobbed in under the Reaper's guard, smashing the long edge into the shadows of the rib cage. Death howled as the icy radiance of the sword infected his bones at high speed, consuming him with white fire. For an instant he resembled the Skull, burning with revenge. In two seconds it was over. The pale horse faded from existence. The Reaper fallen into dust.

"Hell yeah, kid."

Before them, the Black Sun waited, its dark day not yet done.

A glance at the rear-view feed confirmed no one else was coming. Only Daigoroh remained in the fight. Together, they would have to be enough.

Daigoroh didn't wait for anyone to form a plan. The Silver Rat side swiped the Black Sun, trying to knock it into a mine or rough patch. Dracula swayed around these obstacles with a nimbleness Falcon admired. To demonstrate his appreciation, Falcon boosted the Blue Falcon's nose into the Sun, knocking it into the guardrails at high speed. Dracula bounced, his speed halved. Daigoroh rushed in like a proper bandit, lancing and bashing the Sun until the Silver Rat shuddered and flashed, its shields depleted.

"C'mon, kid. You got him good, now get clear so I can finish him off," shouted Falcon.

But the kid had the same hot blooded temperament as his father and had lost his head to wrath. Rat danced a lethal tango around the Sun, trying to cost Dracula enough speed that the Black Sun would either crash or tumble off the vertical loop looming ahead. The dark machine endured the assault, surrendering no further velocity as Dracula concentrated on the race and refused to be drawn into hovercar melee. Falcon swerved in and dealt out a couple of hard knocks. He dared not try for more. Each sortie brought him too damn close to hitting the Silver Rat. Dai had glued together the Silver Rat from salvage and stolen parts—it wouldn't stand another heavy blow. There was nothing to do until Daigoroh cooled off or his hovercar gave out.

Dracula changed tactics in the crook of the final, hairpin turn. The Sun pounced on the Silver Rat. Daigoroh was pinned between the heavier car and the guardrails. A side panel dropped away as another robotic arm sprang from the Rat, its pincer hand shattering a glass bottle against the Sun. A fluid sprayed from the glass, igniting into blue flames on contact with every surface. The Black Sun refused to burn, unrelenting as it ground the Silver Rat against the repulsive fields. Boy and ancient monster together dragged one another towards the finish line. Sparks curtained from the Rat. Smoke billowed.

The Neo Blue Falcon pounded the Black Sun, spearing its flanks and rocket nozzles while burning turbo.

"Take me instead, you bastard!" Falcon roared.

Infuriatingly calm, Dracula replied, "Why give up one when I can have both?"

In microseconds it would be over. The Silver Rat began breaking open. Crumpled plating spun off. A caved section of windshield went spinning over the course barrier.

He heard a scream. Impossible, through the shriek of torn atmosphere, but it sounded real.

Falcon leaned into the boost turbo. Cut in front of the Black Sun and braked. Metal crunched. The world flew off its axis. Falcon felt as if his brains had spilled out on the footwell mat, the splattered coils still chittering on with useless thoughts.

Again, he saw the enemy before him, wreathed in dead light. Again, he rushed to answer the challenge.

Dracula spun the Sun, sending the Blue Falcon pinballing between the barriers.

Halted, Falcon spat blood and looked up to find the Blue Falcon was turned the wrong way, looking back towards the finish line. Not far off, the Silver Rat was a crumpled ball of aluminum foil, sparking and burning as it slumped against the track barrier.

Color drained from the world. It hurt to be such soiled trash, so debased it should've never been allowed to breathe. Falcon was forced to exist with himself.

This was not good. This was not right. The race was not yet done. The post-win loathing had skipped ahead of the victory. The remainder of Falcon still capable of reason feared this depression would cost him the race Dai had died for. The bulk of him settled into cold apathy.

Arbin's voice stole into his mind, fainter than Dracula's, but more cutting. "You've lost your edge. Everyone's been waiting for the old man to tumble down. They'll take your throne before the seat's cooled off. Guess today's the day."

He had fallen off the peak. In his weakness, he'd slept and let his friends and rivals die. Sitting idle on Mute City track, he felt exposed, ridiculous. Worse than a clown. What was the use of condemning vampires for leeches when here he sat, himself a worm gorged fat on blood?

"Dracula," Falcon said out loud. He turned the Blue Falcon around. Grabbed a spot of pit stop shield refill and kept racing. The Black Sun kept pace.

He had no clue where Jody was, and didn't care. Racing was easier now than thinking.

"You give me what Blood Falcon and Goroh had, with none of your puppet master strings attached, would my skills sharpen? Would my reflexes return to their prime?"

The manifestation of the Falcon churned within, welling the man's throat with acid, brushing the tips of burning wings against Its host's lungs in question. It smelled something It did not like.

Dracula's voice rubbed over his cortex like rotten red velvet. "Turn you? Yes, you would become more than what you are. Your true self, shed of all limitation which mortality imposes on flesh. But without holding authority over you, how would granting such a boon benefit me?"

The man felt the gaze of the cosmic bird (which of course was not really a falcon or a mind or a fire, but something more and beyond any of these) turn to regard him, eyes afire with the light of a million galactic cores, an unspoken question asked that pained him more than Its bubbling anxiety had.

Before he could comprehend the answer in his stricken heart, the man had already rendered it to the Falcon. The cosmic Power went still.

Tears spilling hot down his cheeks, Captain Falcon crushed the wheel in his fists, and hissed through his teeth. To lure a beast one must offer up the meat.

"I will become the greatest racer F-Zero has ever known or will ever know. I would be the steel you sharpen yourself against. Contesting me is your only shot at finding out what your best really looks like. That's what you want, isn't it? Challengers worthy of you. Set a standard of excellence that can't be surpassed. I can give it to you. But that won't happen if I'm not my own man. You take me on free or not at all."

Dracula purred. "I accept."

The manifestation of the Falcon let out a small betrayed _wark_ of hurt. And then It screamed, for It was no longer alone. It didn't matter that they drove separate machines, still blasting along at 1300 km/hr on Mute City race course. The barriers between the Captain and Shadow vanished; the distance between them shrank.

Balled up in a cramped space, cold and small inside. Vacant. The Falcon had left.

Douglas distantly registered he was inside the Black Sun's cockpit, somehow. Except for a few strobing red lights and flickering switches, no windshield or camera feed interrupted the gloom. Dracula coiled beside him.

Twin holes in a gray face appraised the feast. The vampire wasted no time on decorum. He pushed Douglas down, snarling, grunting, scrambling to mount with less grace than a jackal digging into a fresh kill. Fangs raked his chin, stabbed his chest, gnawed him to red meat on their way to his neck. Dracula's powerful mouth slavered with hunger. He sucked at the drawn blood with careless slurping. No seduction, just satiation.

Profaned beyond any possible cleansing by this parasite sliming over its meal, a desire took hold of Douglas, fiercer than desert thirst, more bitter than childhood regret—that he should beg the Power which he had shunned to forgive and return. Petition It to sweep this foul maggot from its wallow and burn what filth it left behind to ash.

Yet, he held firm to his decision. Douglas lay there and took it.

So what if the Falcon won him free? What was left? He had failed everyone that mattered. Vampires felt no real pain, and that would be something. In this world a loser was nothing. Losing was worst than death, worse than this defilement.

Dracula sighed and bit down. The darkness of the cockpit went white with agony. Teeth as cold as interstellar ice ran Douglas through.

* * *

Lap 4

* * *

Shield gauge half full, but how long could that last? The Black Bull harried his back, ready to punish any mistake. Alucard sucked air through clenched teeth, bracing himself to turn the Thunder around and fight. He was many things, but not yet a true practitioner of F-Zero., Yet, his customary strategies would not avail him here. Time to do as both his father and his lover bid. Adapt to the times. He lifted his foot from the accelerator and placed it over the break pedal.

"Do not slow, sir. Yet maintain your speed a while longer," said a small, tinny voice. Alucard looked into the footwell and saw the backlit gaze of a robotic hawk staring back.

"I am the Lady Arrow's messenger," announced the robotic bird. "Once she learned of Jody's plight she foresaw the need for cooperation. The Lady Arrow seeks to continue her late husband's quest against evil and injustice. You are an ally of the Falcon. Will you be ally to the Arrow as well?"

It occurred to Alucard that this might be an elaborate ploy of Arrow's to rid herself of a competitor. This seemed unlikely. Easier to have the aviandroid sabotage his machine while he drove unawares than buy him with a false song. Besides, without help, he would not survive Black Shadow's superior technique for another lap.

With small hesitation, he answered. "Yes."

"Good. Then we will coordinate our attack." The robot bird flexed its brass wings, making soft clicking sounds. "The strategy is simple. In the home stretch, stop your car. When the Bull closes to gore you, we will trap him between your machine and my lady's Meteor in a pincer attack. Then—"

"No. Nothing of the sort will work while the Bull has weapon systems activated." And cold realization settled upon him then that there was no easy way out. The race must go on, or else Black Shadow would simply blast anyone off the track who refused to play his sick game of cat and mouse. Staying still wasn't an option, but that didn't mean Alucard couldn't change the battlefield to suit.

"What do you suggest then?"

A quick glance at the track map in the lower right of the HUD showed he had nearly completed lap three.

"At the end of the opening stretch, I will spring a surprise attack. Until then, have Lady Arrow aggravate Shadow but do not engage him fully. If I can create an opening with my ambush, Arrow must then deal the decisive blow while Shadow is distracted. I trust, as a veteran, the lady will know when the moment is right."

The hawk tilted its head, message relayed and awaiting an answer, which arrived a second later. "So be it. We are approaching the final turn now. We will do as you ask."

"Convey my gratitude to your lady."

"Luck be with you, pale warrior." The hawk phased out of the cockpit in a burst of green teleporter rays.

Alucard checked the rear camera, for he no longer heard the telltale roar of violently displaced air which arose when a hovercar encroached upon the vicinity of the Thunder's tail fins. Black Shadow had been drawn off and was now dueling with the Queen Meteor, the sleek arrowhead machine piloted by Mrs. Arrow.

Arrow and Shadow took turns side swiping each other. The Black Bull thrashed back and forth, attempting to gore the Meteor with its horns, yet the Meteor was more agile, dodging each thrust and buck and nearly slipping ahead of the Black Bull several times. The lady had bought Alucard a minute more to live.

Alucard made a proper mess of the hairpin turn, not daring to waste precious seconds on braking. Refilling a little in the pit stop zone, he rounded the first turn and drew a card from a hidden pocket. "Adapt," he muttered.

From around an unseen corner perpendicular to the angles of ordinary reality a faerie familiar fluttered into existence. Shyly she bobbed in place, arms behind her back. "I await your commanding word."

"Take the wheel. Drive the rest of this race for me. Try not to crash."

Her head snapped about, hay blond hair fluttering in a breeze she created for effect. "Huh?" Hesitantly, the pixie lowered to the wheel and seized it in her tiny fists. A fierce green fire flashed in her eyes. "At last. I have waited ages uncounted to tear shit up. I will not fail you."

Alucard was barely listening. Sounds grew muffled and distant as he transformed into mist and slipped out the ventilation system. It took a moment to reconsolidate, stretched out as his cloud was by the machine's velocity. Out on the pavement, the atmosphere was artificially calm thanks to the bubble of force shielding encompassing the track. By the time he reformed to flesh, the Black Bull was past the pit stop zone and screaming down the lane at a horrible ramming speed. The Queen Meteor was nowhere to be seen.

Yes, F-Zero required new ways of thinking, of fighting. But the fundamentals of the warrior were eternal. Fight on a battleground of one's choosing.

Captain Falcon disdained the use of weapons while racing, but Alucard lacked his confidence and thus had packed much heat. His cloak hung heavy with gear. From the depths of his coat he produced the shield rod and the skull shield. Old spoils from past campaigns in Castlevania, useful enough to preserve through the rasping wear of centuries.

Alucard rapped the rod against the skull shield, awakening its magic. The air behind him grew colder. The sunlight dimmed. From far away, a hollow moaning of many voices, the dry rattle of bones restless in shallow graves.

The Black Bull was upon him. Its pulsing roar filled his ears, a shadow blurring impossibly fast. If he hadn't already brought up the shield rod, twirling it in hand as he threw mana into it, Shadow's machine would've smashed him into scarlet dew.

From the rod sprang its namesake—three twirling Gradius shields, each a flower of blue ghost fire. The Black Bull impacted them at full speed and recoiled as if checking itself against the side of a mountain. The shields evaporated, and as the Black Bull sprang off the guardrail behind it, its speed halved yet still lethal, the skull shield summoning completed.

An apparition of mass dead manifested above the track to blaspheme the day. From the confederation of gaping skulls, the terrible light of unholy radiation blasted forth in a concentrated ray, hitting the center of the Black Bull with flawless aim.

With a rattling sigh, the glob of specters faded from the world.

The Black Bull buckled, but did not explode. The machine was a powerful one, and it would take another summoning, perhaps two, to achieve core containment breach.

Judging by the agility with which Black Shadow corrected the Bull's direction and the gathering rocket glow of boost turbo on the pavement behind it, Alucard had run out of time. Lucky, then, that Lady Arrow knew when to pick her moments.

The Queen Meteor cut through the Black Bull. She split the cockpit into nearly even halves.

Lady Arrow did not pause to salute or check her work, but boosted off, eager to finish the race. Alucard bowed to the retreating flame of her machine, and then inched towards the cage of fire and shattered titanium. He expected no survivors.

A horned figure reared from the conflagration and stepped out onto the track.

Most of Black Shadow's clothes, his cape and horned helmet, had scorched from their usual sleek midnight black to the porous texture of charcoal. Armor and skin sloughed off the man's frame as he staggered, hissing, towards Alucard.

Alucard curled his nostrils. Something smelled off.

"Black Shadow" fell to his knees, then fell into halves. What remained that hadn't carbonized went translucent, a material like spotted jelly slicked over with an oily rainbow sheen. This was no man or cyborg. It had been so long since last encountering one that Alucard had nearly forgotten the signature odor of one of Dracula's rarest minions.

Changeling. Doppelganger.

A roar of torn air in the distance. Another machine was approaching. The distant speck split in two. They quickly took on shape, detail. The Big Fang piloted by Bio Rex, and Don Genie's Fat Shark. Disciples of his father. Tooth and maw. They would be on him in six seconds. Lady Arrow was more than a dozen seconds away from completing a lap, and the familiar piloting the Blue Thunder was only a little further along the loop, assuming it survived. Twelve seconds. An eternity in F-Zero.

Alucard dropped the shield and rod, swallowed a capsule of shield potion, and drew the Osafune katana from its sheath. Then he closed his eyes and turned around, grip on sword reversed and thrust out behind him like a long razor tail. Last second, letting out a held breath, he released all tension from his muscles and tilted backwards.

This was how the Big Fang caught him, bearing him up on its diamond windshield. The legendary katana shivered through the crystal, which had been engineered to withstand blunt impacts across its width, not a narrow penetration leading with a molecule-width edge. Osafune slid just as easily into Bio Rex. Pinned to his seat, the travesty of genetic retroengineering slammed on the brakes.

Propelled forward at horrific velocity, Alucard transformed to mist, then bat mid-flight, lastly fluttering down to the track with a flourish of cape, sword raised in an invitation to battle. Jaws frothed with spittle and blood, Bio Rex accepted. He shouldered aside the windshield and charged, jaws snapping, gushing blood.

Alucard make a three-point step to the right and swung the katana down in an arc which sang as it sliced air and snout. If having a face suddenly shortened by several inches bothered Bio Rex, he cared not enough to pause his assault or make any noise betraying pain.

A fusion of dinosaur and human DNA, the axes that bounded the coordinates of all he could conceive were hunger, wrath, and status. At the moment Rex cared not a damn for status. Claws tearing, and mutilated head thrashing that he might shred with what few fangs remained to him, in a second Famicom's silly costume littered the course in bloody tatters.

A diagonal cut through the shoulder, then a lateral slice over the bowels and it was done. Bio Rex slumped at his feet, a twitching heap of viscera. Rex had, like Zoda, not been vampirized. Too inhuman to accept the curse, perhaps.

Alucard pirouetted to find the Fat Shark upon him. So close it was even a far-sighted victim standing in his place would be able to discern the fine detailing of the machine's paint job.

With a will of burly iron, Alucard reshaped mana into a lever which he set against one particular physical gradient crucial to the universe. Inside a small circumference, his sorcery compelled time's arrow to slow its inexorable flight.

Lacerated skin drank Rex's blood from Alucard's soaked clothing, fueling the enormous expenditure of mana. Alucard felt then what he had not felt in an age, experienced once more what he became in the act of feeding. No need to quaff a potion to patch the holes the man-lizard had punched through skin and muscle. Stolen life paid for life.

Later would come the remorse. But in the moment, electric with F-Zero's thrill and savoring this dark nourishment, Alucard no longer possessed the capacity to care. Yet another once precious treasure left for rubbish alongside the endless road. So be it.

Strong and steady, he took a step. The Fat Shark eased forward, dangerously close to tapping his leading knee.

Alucard metabolized the last ounce of mana. Time to embrace the force which ruled this tawdry universe. Become velocity itself. He cast Hellfire—Dark Inferno variant.

In a column of eldritch light, Alucard vanished. The Fat Shark hit nothing as it hurtled forward a few hundred meters. Don Genie engaged his brakes and drifted through a tight U-turn, just in time to collide windshield-first with twin meteorites of dark smoldering stone.

From another pillar of baleful light Alucard had returned to the track behind the Shark, completing the spell by letting fly from the darkness of his cape the burning orbs of basalt uprooted from hell's bedrock.

The meteorites collapsed the cabin of the Fat Shark, crushing its pilot into a wafer. Don Genie, being a vampire, endured. What was left of him activated boost power. With perfect aim, the grisly pancake that had been Don steered the flaming ruin of his machine on a course to run Alucard down.

Alucard had enough time to sheath the Osafune and draw a pair of Valmanway swords. Walking into onrushing destruction, he whipped the swords through a series of katas, beginning too fast for the mortal eye to follow and building speed from there. Valmanway blades were also named Blessed Wind, for they struck in an all consuming gale of adamantine steel.

Into this whirlwind of shining blades the Fat Shark dived nose first. The machine carved away in neat sections and sparks, the edges of each piece white hot. The Fat Shark parted before Alucard and rocketed onwards in a cloud of heavy shrapnel, leaving the swordspire in the center of the metal storm unscathed.

When it was done Don Genie lay on the track, limbs jerking brokenly, hissing agony through several new mouths.

"Damnation, I thought I had you," wheezed Don. "But then, my judgment isn't a shadow of what it once was. And neither am I." His clutch of spider eyes turned to the gleaming blue swords. "Could you, perhaps… do me a favor, old son?"

For a criminal of such enormity as Don Genie, even an act of perfunctory mercy must count as grossly undeserved grace. Feeling righteous and begrimed and used, Alucard nonetheless nodded curtly and slashed down with each fist, then again. And it was done. The sullen acid light of the carbon choked sun took care of the rest.

For an instant, Alucard wondered why Dracula hadn't abused his power over the Execution Committee to demand a nighttime race.

Sudden collision with the sloped face of an F-Zero machine racing over 1200 kmph spared Alucard from further mental exertion. He did not catch the machine number which hit him, not even its color, or the identity of the next three vehicles which juggled him off their backs each time his limp body attempted to land.

Reduced to a bag of jelly with some hard bits mixed in, Alucard lay still, knowing nothing. First to come back was sound.

"Daaammnn, homie. You need this more than I do."

Next, sight. The shivering, squinting face of Daigoroh, hovering above as the child poured out a hi-potion. The healing fluid soaked in through the skin as Rex's blood had, empowering Alucard's innards to reassemble into something close to their original configuration.

The other senses returned in a mob of pain. Blinking back tears of blood, Alucard sat up, Dai tugging one of his arms. The child's labored breaths exhaled as puffs of steam.

"C'mon, man. They'll be back any second. We gotta jack another machine or find a place to hide. Or something."

"Too late… For hiding."

Two-hundred meters distant, the White Cat purred in idle, its windshield opaque. An illicit missile port irised open.

"Get behind me," said Alucard, hauling Dai behind the cover his body.

From out of the cloak came the Alucard Shield.

A rocket fired, crossing the space between them as instantly as a Valmanway sword strike. Blinding light, as the explosion raged to nothing against the force field high above.

The White Cat revved up, preparing to run them down. Shield arm numb from the shock of deflecting a rocket, Alucard flung aside the armor. He had lost the Valmanway swords and he did not trust the Osafune, not with the boy so close. This called for something… unorthodox.

Instead of a blade or a shield, Alucard pulled out the Fists of Tulkas, a pair of spiked battle gloves resembling the heads of dragons, rendered in green orichalcum, set with fire gem eyes. Feeling stronger just for wearing them, he threw a flurry of punches that left the air crackling with static. Yes, they would do.

"Hey, g-wight, those power gloves better than a blaster?" Incredulity contorted the child's face, arching his already bushy eyebrows.

"They'll have to be."

Dai shook his head. "Man, where do you get this stuff? Hook me up with a pair."

The White Cat pounced, full boost. Alucard set his feet and raised the Fists.

* * *

The Final Lap

* * *

And with a brush of his cold hand, the vampire closed his sight.

"Where is Alucard?" Falcon asked of the darkness. "Where is your son?"

"In last place. Alive, despite the best efforts of my pack," said Dracula from somewhere close. Very close. "A fine job you've done in training him, having so little time at your disposal. With eternal youth on his side, and a vampire's reflexes, he will make a F-Zero pilot par excellence. Though he's likely to reject the idea outright. He refuses all purpose in life but to hound me."

There was a bucket of cold water to the face. Alucard. In the Grand Prix, by his side. Because Falcon had dragged him into it. Once more the old lesson was reaffirmed: there could be no end to shame. He stirred, tried to rise. A claw of ice gently pressed him back down.

"Maybe he'd take on the new life, a new face if you'd stop returning from the dead." A little heat came back to his throat. "You lecture him about refusing to change, but it's you maintaining the pattern. It's always you, back from the dead, closing the loop."

"I think I know my own son better than you."

Dry and freezing, the mouth of the vampire clamping down over his own. Bitter, it tasted of other people's hearts. The poison of his kiss sealed all taste and smell, and stilled the tongue.

"Having second thoughts? If you want to keep pace with Alucard, or me, you need this. Time to face some hard truths, man."

Sharp teeth nibbled at his ear. A tongue steel cold and knife-tipped slithered into the hole. His hearing shut, the vampire's words wrote themselves on his bound soul, and their ink was sorrow.

"You're aging. Already your skills wane. Soon, eyes will dim, nerves will fray, thews will tremble with feebleness. Your name will dip in the standings, fall away, vanish as if it had never been. The thing that dwells within you, it's letting you grow old. What we do here, together, will repair that. Trap an eternal youth inside you, restore your vigor to better than it was in your prime."

Captain Falcon bucked and twisted inside the cool clay prison of his flesh. Either through a sleeping wisdom newly awakened or by the sadism of Dracula, a sepia toned vision flickered by on spoiled film, of how the thing named Falcon would spend his millennia as a vampire. The murder he would revel in did not shock him, for yearly he raced a lethal race. Yet he saw how his strength would depend on the strength of those he fed upon. And he saw how high his potential soared then, yet the power of the vampire had its limits. And when he reached those limits, there would be no hope of surpassing them. Only something alive can grow.

A burning truth prodded with its white-hot brand. In his weakness, in his greed, he had been a fool. He had traded the temporary yet limitless power of the Falcon for the eternal plateau of the demon. He had downgraded to an inferior eternity when he already possessed infinity.

Retreating deep inside, the man sought the fire he'd spurned. No one could know how long he wandered the empty, cloud haunted vastness of inner space. Where stars had once blazed, cinders in their obscure multitudes drifted in black hole riddled gloom.

Beyond exhaustion, when searching had emptied him of everything, even regret, his soul rolled over in the void, having found its place of final quitting. The mind's eye closed. In that ending, a familiar heat caressed a frozen cheek. It would not let him sleep. Ahead, a light too stubborn to be stopped by blindness.

The man approached the star. It swelled in size, red and bristling with flares and arches of plasma. As he came closer, the stellar prominences resolved into wings and a beak. Star spots became eyes.

The Falcon, which had given Douglas his third and most true name. Weakly, the star bird lifted Its head and turned those searing eyes upon him. It queried in a weak voice. _Wark?_

"I have no right to ask. Can you forgive an old fool a moment of weakness?"

It watched him. The man did not have to explain the folly he'd grown to understand, or tell how his wrong had first hurt him and then hollowed him out. The Falcon saw all.

Even so, there are some things that must be spoken. "Take me back, unworthy as I am, that I may restore what I have destroyed."

That timeless head craned low, nuzzled him with a cosmic beak of star fire, annihilating and recreating him constantly. Then, as if sighting prey, It shrieked Its killing cry down through the ages.

The man smiled. "Yes!"

The finish line exploded by. The fifth, final lap had begun.

Dracula disdained use of the pit stop zone. With so little distance remaining, it would be difficult to steal 1st place back from the vampire. Falcon tightened his grip on the wheel. Hard, but not impossible.

Captain Falcon hauled on the wheel, ramming the Black Sun aside. The vampire's machine lost speed to the draining barrier fields. If Dracula had anything to say to this development, he hissed it to himself. Falcon's mind remained pristinely clean of all alien voices.

Captain Falcon drove on, breaking 2500 km/hr, racing what might be the best lap of his life, losing not an attosecond to roughened track or misjudged breaking, hugging each turn and burning boost at every straightaway. He paid no heed to the tears dripping from his chin. He loved this so damn much.

The student-teacher analogy had been poorly chosen. F-Zero wasn't a classroom. It was an opera of burning steel and blood churning speed. And the time had come to deliver the final stanza to Dracula.

In the end, the monster had met the force which lived within him. Did Alucard's father understand who he was racing against now?

That's what these fools never understood. They saw something pathetic in the sport of F-Zero. All the rushing and hurry to go nowhere. All that fuel burned just to arrive back where you started. Heathen.

The race was sacrament, the closed loop of the circuit a symbol of the infinite covenant between the Falcon and Its champion. By each lap completed, a truth was confirmed. When one man's race was finished, the Falcon would race on, ever present, everlasting, beginning again with every ending.

Dracula had not always existed. He had lasted a long time, and would likely last a while longer. But eventually the line of his road would reach an end without closing with its beginning. At the finish line the Falcon would be waiting. The Lord of the Night would be borne away into emptiness and his dust would mingle with other dust and at last not even the memory of the dust would remain.

The Falcon would abide until even eternity itself curled and fell off the wall of reality, and the universe huffed out one last cosmic breath and moved no more.

Inch by inch he drew ahead of the Black Sun. Through the vertical loop they shot. Dracula tried for a spin attack and Falcon dodged it easy. He maintained the lead. Dracula closed, skulls floating up to the surface of the Sun's hood. Skeletons broke from the tar black lacquer, reaching out with clawed fingers to claim him.

Falcon sneered. In the end, he was the better pilot, and all Dracula had was cheap tricks. They rounded the hairpin turn. Falcon braked just enough to trace the outline of the inside barrier with molecular accuracy. Dracula took the turn too fast, shot wide. He burned turbo to overtake Falcon in the homestretch. The vampire did not see the Blue Thunder barreling down the straightaway, coming from the wrong direction.

The two machines collided at full velocity, neither braking. For a single, insane instant they appeared to blend together. An explosion shook the track as the Lightning's power core fused, went nova. The ruin of the Black Sun ground to a halt in a tsunami of sparks. Shadows fled its ruptured carapace. Its inner crimson glow flickered, dimmed, blinked out.

Captain Falcon declined to watch the explosion through the rear-view camera. The Neo Blue Falcon cleared the finish line surfing on a blast wave, boosted to a face mashing 3000 km/hr. 1st place.


	18. Bloody Tears

Foregoing the customary victory lap, Captain Falcon parked the Blue Falcon, got out, and approached the wreckage of the Black Sun, taking each step slow. Dracula was already out, his long body stooped over the pavement, working at something.

Not much left of the Blue Thunder to examine. A few smoking shards of armor, surreal in their frozen fluid shapes that metals take from high energy impacts. He did not look for remains, not yet. Refused to acknowledge the raw meridian of loss widening where something good had been cut away.

Instead he circled around to see what had Dracula so occupied. The vampire sketched an intricate formula in blood and black chalk. Its script… attempting to read the lines made him sick. The alphabet was like nothing he'd seen before. The formula was contained within a circle, spiraling inwards on itself. As one watched, the letters and shapes seemed to whirl down an infinite, seething drain of gray light.

The vampire dipped a finger into a bowl of blood and wrote another rune. Falcon wondered, had that 'ink' come from him?

Looking up, Dracula squinted against the sunlight. "Almost done. Just need a few more. Ah, here they come."

Down the straightaway rolled the droning of an approaching F-Zero machine. Keeping eyes on the vampire, the helmet's camera zoomed in on the distant vehicle, displaying it over the interior visor in sharp detail. The Queen Meteor. Lady Arrow. The Meteor came on limping, shield flashing, one side crumpled in by impact or explosion.

Behind her, the Wild Boar, closing fast. Not hard to guess why its pilot, Michael Chain, sided with Dracula. The Bloody Chains gang had made his expulsion official just last year.

Falcon stepped into track center. He gathered the power of the Falcon in his right fist. The timing would have to be perfect.

Lady Arrow veered to the side. Michael Chain spotted what looked like easier prey. The Wild Boar bore down on Falcon, intending to splatter him across its windshield.

The Wild Boar detonated, struck by a missile from behind. The shockwave knocked the Queen Meteor over the barrier fields, spinning down to the traffic glutted grid far below.

Falcon redirected the ancient might as he ran. He vaulted over the barrier, diving into free fall. Warmth spread down his back as the wings unfurled. Falcon narrowed their span to steepen the angle of the dive. The Queen Meteor settled into its arc of descent. Before it dropped too far Falcon caught up. He grabbed the bumper, and flapping like mad with the Wings of the Falcon, he hauled Arrow and her machine back up through the sky and tossed them onto the track. The Meteor's g-diffuser still worked, allowing it to float down to a gentle landing.

The track shimmered with the blue and gold lights of his wings. From the vampire, a sigh. Corner visor display showed Dracula had stopped his writing, looking on with a wistful expression. In a voice lowered with respect, "How could you consider, for an instant, giving up on that magnificent bird, I will never know. Were the choice mine, I would also embrace the Falcon."

"Ready to surrender?" Falcon asked.

"Not even close."

And then a white line traced over the Queen Meteor. Combat laser—Falcon identified an instant before the racing machine exploded. Lady Arrow hadn't made it out in time. Through the billowing smoke Pico sauntered towards them, ultra-gamma pulse laser carbine held easy in his scaly arms, its sights centered on the bridge of Falcon's nose. Off the slope of his shell hung a compact g-diffuser rig, which had kept him from sharing in the Wild Goose's earthward plunge.

"How much he paying you?" Falcon nodded to Dracula. "Hope it was worth giving up your breathing privileges."

Pico's long, purple tongue casually snaked out to scratch his cheek. "Oh, captain, my captain. It's not about the credits. It's about job satisfaction. Watching the smug self-righteousness drain out of your face… cooking your girlfriend in her own car… I'm a Terrapod newly rich in satisfaction. Speaking of price, how much for those wing mods? I'll be able to afford myself a pair now."

Shift a millimeter in any direction, or so much as twiddle his fingers, Pico would burn a hole through his skull. Good thing his helmet's UI accepted commands via cornea movements and eyelid twitches. "The only operation your shell's going to see is when I hack it off your spine for a trophy. Bounty posted is for alive or dead, remember?"

Pico hacked up a laugh. "You have to be alive to claim bounties. I'd like to see you tryyy." His paws tightened their grip on the gun, impatient to get on with it. Was he trying to savor the moment, or did he need permission?

Falcon risked a grin. "Why do you think I invited you into my brigade? It sure as hell wasn't for your racing skills. Now I got you right where I want you. I'm bringing you in."

The assassin shrugged. "And I'm about to get everything I ever wanted. Take your best shot."

"You don't rate my best shot."

"Ooooh? Considering I have a bead on your tiny brain and I'm one trigger squeeze away from becoming a legend, how am I not the greatest opponent you've ever faced?"

"You're a murdering scumbucket, Pico. But it's not that you killed for money that makes you pathetic. I'm about to do the same. It's that you killed good men so the bad ones could thrive. In life you always took the easy way out. This time, you go hard."

Seeing that Falcon stayed put, Pico looked to his employer. "Well?"

Dracula consulted the eddy of his equations. "I need three more."

A distant droning drew closer. Another racing machine approached. From the back-of-the-head feed, Falcon saw what looked like the White Cat. Trailing behind it came the darker flicker of Antonio Guster's Green Panther. Dracula's brigade rushing to back up their master.

"I don't care how you get them," Dracula added.

"Easssy pickin's," drawled Pico. One claw eased into the trigger guard. Falcon coiled his strength, readying to lunge, accepting the likely death. The carbine darted away, drawing aim on the White Cat.

The whole thing happened as his right boot left the ground. The expanded spectrum filter in his helmet's visor brought out all the fine details. The searing ray of photonic death lashed out. He finished a second step, already an eternity too late.

Jody, I'm sorry.

He had taken three steps before Pico whipped the laser carbine back to pointing dead center of his chest. "Ah, ah, ahhh, Captain Chicken. Hold still while we confirm the kill."

"Two," intoned Dracula.

The Green Panther slowed as it passed the burning shell of the White Cat, then cruised on. Pico's attention flipped between Falcon and the oncoming machine. If he fired on the Panther, Falcon would have him and he knew it. He knew Falcon knew it.

"The time has come to say goodbye. How I wish I could've drawn this out all day." The claw moved to the trigger guard.

"I get some last words, don't I?"

"Oh, I think you've had—" A horrific flatulent noise ripped down from the sky above. Pico involuntarily looked up, beak parting wide in astonishment.

The gunship of Samus Aran perforated the track's force field. A momentary cyclone of choppy air screamed around them, nearly pulling those standing off their feet and rippling Dracula's cape.

Pico grunted as the shoulder rest of the carbine slammed into his throat. Falcon slapped the still hot barrel across his beak for good measure. He had wanted to turn the gun around on its owner, push the barrel up under the chin and give the trigger a squeeze, but Falcon did not at all like the way Dracula was tallying deaths.

"You see," Falcon said to Dracula. "You're not the only one who hired some extra protection ahead of time."

The vampire smiled, still crouched over the twisting writing. "More, more," Dracula called out in singsong. "All souls fungible in the grand accounting."

Green text began scrolling across the visor. WAS BEGINNING TO THINK YOU'D NEVER CALL. NEVER THOUGHT THE DAY WOULD COME WHEN THE GREAT FALCON WOULD SHARE A BOUNTY.

Captain Falcon waved to the gunship. "Thanks for the help, Sam" he texted back. Not in time to save Jody, but it would be churlish to throw that in her face, so he bit his tongue.

NOW WHO NEEDS TO DIE? Samus Aran, bounty hunter and destroyer of worlds replied. She had the annoying habit of always texting in full caps. OH. IS THAT PICO GROVELING AT YOUR FEET?

"He's all yours, along with the bounty. Keep these other creeps covered until we figure out what's going on."

JUST DON'T TAKE ALL DAY. BAD AT BABYSITTING.

The Green Panther pulled up and parked near by. Falcon was surprised that Antonio had decided to stick around and face the consequences. For him it'd be a first. An even greater surprise when the hatch popped and out clambered Alucard, sword in one hand, a bloodied but alive Daigoroh hoisted in the other. One of the kid's arms hung useless, likely broken.

"Stewart is sweeping the track, making sure there are no other minions lurking out there to trouble us," said Alucard.

"That's everyone? What about Bio Rex and the rest?"

"Shadow Lord's brigade is no more. Those we haven't destroyed have fled."

Falcon met his gaze and nodded. He'd done good.

Alucard spotted what his father was working on. His eyes widened, fists clenching until they were whiter than white. He whispered a word, which sounded like "Dominus."

"You know what that is?" Falcon asked, jabbing a finger at the textual whirlpool. "He's been counting up deaths for some reason. Says he needs two more."

"Then we must make sure no one else perishes until I can unwork this spell. Else a great power will be unleashed, to what foul ends I cannot guess."

"One of those deaths was Jody," rumbled Falcon.

"Yo, that wasn't Jody." Daigoroh indicated the far off flaming remains of the White Cat with a jerk of his head. "We tied up Antonio, put him inside the Cat, and Ally summoned a demon to steer it. Said we might need a decoy." As Daigoroh explained, Alucard's imp familiar floated up from the wreck, waggling it's tiny pitchfork.

"Check out the Panther. He made me _sit_ on that _thing_ , man." Spitting, Dai drew his short sword with his good arm and strode over to Pico, who had been busy trying to sneak a holdout blaster from his boot. Daigoroh tickled his throat scales with the blade's edge. "Hey, give me an excuse. I'll go Super Mario on your Koopa ass," he hissed.

Falcon took a peek into the Panther's cockpit. Wedged to the side of the seat was a strange corpse of semi-transparent jelly, speckled throughout with fobs of unidentifiable material. The glob still retained the general shape of an adult human woman.

"The hell?"

"Shapeshifter. It was piloting the White Cat, posing as Jody. Another was imitating Black Shadow. I think the real Jody was never in the race." Alucard gripped his arm. "Help me subdue my father, and we may save her yet."

A fake? That meant Jody was still out there. Alive. The relief made it hard for Falcon to draw a steady breath.

Dracula seemed unfazed by how things were shaking out. As Falcon and Alucard approached, he was studying Samus' ship, one claw outstretched, silently mouthing words.

"What's he up to now?" asked Falcon.

Above, the gunship drifted over their position, blocking the sun. Samus activated a grappling beam, eager to lasso up her prize.

More text from Samus scrolled in. THOUGHT YOU HAD BETTER SENSE THAN FOOLING AROUND WITH VAMPIRES.

"You know about vampires?" he replied.

I KILL ALL SORTS OF WEIRD SHIT OUT THERE, BROTHER. DID YOU KNOW THAT GHOSTS ARE REAL?

"In dreams, maybe."

OK THEN. MIND TELLING ME WHY THE VENGEFUL SPIRITS OF MY PEOPLE ARE NOW CRAWLING ALL OVER ME, TRYING TO PECK OUT MY EYEEEEEEE—

"Chozo phantoms. They'll make a lovely addition to my menagerie." The Lord of the Night smiled at Falcon with fangs stained pink. "Come now, Doug. Do you really think I'd rely on Pico as my sole ace up the sleeve?"

There was no audible warning of force field breach, the way there'd been with Samus. The Urwing EX space fighter had clung, undetected, to the underside of the Mute City track the entire race. It rose above the track now, weapon bays open. This wasn't a standard issue Federation assault craft. The paint job was unique, as was the call number stenciled on the port side. This was the Urwing of Jody Summer.

"Watch out!" Falcon texted back to Samus, hoping it wasn't already a bad pun.

Either way, too little, too late. Jody unloaded on Samus' gunship with a full round of everything she had, sparing only the nova bombs, which would have wiped away most of the race course. Lasers, anti-matter sprinklers, missiles, photon shells, and more washed over her target. Pico, the only one without technological or magical hearing protection, was forced to clamp paws over ears as the thunder of multiple explosions blended into one drawn out boom.

Samus' orange and red gunship held together through the barrage, though it yawed away from the inferno breached and smoking, the grapple beam shorting out.

The shockwaves flattened everyone except Dracula, who stood with arms raised, laughing. Daigoroh had been smart enough to crawl under the Neo Blue Falcon a second before Jody pulled the trigger.

Pink text scrolled onto Falcon's visor. "You won the race. As promised, here's the prize."

Green text followed. IS THAT JODY? ALWAYS WANTED TO TRY HER. GHOSTS JUST ENOUGH HANDICAP TO MAKE THIS INTERESTING.

Samus returned fire, smacking the Urwing back. The ace fighter pilots began circling each other, trading weapons fire and quips over group text.

"It's an insult that bounty hunter scum could ever pretend to be in the same class as me."

HARDER MOMMY. ACTUALLY MAKING ME WET NOW.

Why waste time convincing Jody to fight against vampiric control when the root of the problem was within killing reach. Falcon moved in on Dracula. The vampire seized Pico and popped fangs into his neck. With a single, awesome inhale, he sucked down every green drop. The deflated husk he threw aside must have weighed less than half its original body weight. Quick as Falcon was, there hadn't been time to stop it.

Dracula dragged a sleeve over his lips. "One more. Who's it to be, captain? The boy? Aran? You?"

"Try your kisser on this!" Faster than lightning, he swung for the vampire's leering mug and hit nothing but air. Dracula was already behind him, throwing fireballs into his back.

Falcon brushed off the living fire. "Don't waste my time. Lift your control off of Jody and turn yourself in. Take comfort that you'll outlive any prison sentence the Feds lay on you."

"Surrender, father. There's been enough death already," added Alucard, who flanked Dracula, sword bared.

The vampire looked up to the air battle filling the sky with fire. A rainbow of reflected laser glare mottled his skin. "Why give up when I need only wait a minute more and receive all I've worked so hard for. One of those fierce ladies will slay the other, or the force fields will give out and the high winds will sweep you away to your ignoble end, or…"

And damn it all, another machine sped onto the scene. To avoid being hit Falcon dived into a somersault, while Alucard turned into a bat. For an instant there was hope that this was Stewart in the Golden Fox, attempting to run down their common enemy. But no, rather than gold, the machine was the lurid purple of the Death Anchor.

"Behold fools, your end has come. Soon my laboratories will be well stocked with fascinating samples," Zoda screeched from a loudspeaker installed in the Anchor. Zoda was exactly the kind of self-styled mad scientist to install speakers into an F-Zero machine.

In a flash of teleportation beam light, a giant robot appeared. It possessed a faint resemblance to Mr. EAD.

"Dracula, you may rule the night, but I shall dominate all of outer space! Witness the ultimate combat prowess of Fusion Strength!" shrieked Zoda. The robot tottered forward, its thick arms raised with claw fingers snapping.

Falcon's hands balled into fists. "Don't have time for this shit."

Struck by inspiration, Falcon located the imp familiar, who had been fluttering in place nearby, watching the starfighter showdown overhead while it munched through a doll-sized tub of popcorn. Falcon gave its tail a gentle tug.

"Hey. Distract that creep over there, would ya?" Falcon jabbed a thumb at the Death Anchor.

"Why?"

"His machine probably has some interesting stuff inside. Dig around for something you can steal."

A glitter in its tiny eyes. "You ain't my boss, though."

Falcon hesitated. What did such a creature long for the most? When in doubt, go with a classic.

"If you do it, I'll buy you some candy."

"Bitchin'." The familiar stuck its pitchfork into the air with gusto and flapped off towards Zoda's machine.

"Why did you do it? Why cast that spell during a race?" Alucard was asking his dad, paying no attention to Zoda and his robot.

"I felt it better to start my new life with the cleanest slate possible. What better place to gather the needed sacrifices than in a venue of state sanctioned murder? What better occasion to reap souls than an F-Zero race? For certain, the other options weren't nearly as fun."

"And who is the target of Dominus? Who out there would you need its help in killing?"

"Oh, son. I'm not casting it to kill anyone." He waved to the Death Anchor. "Zoda, are you listening? Please shoot someone. I don't care who."

"Fool! I am under your control no longer!" frothed Zoda. "I have found a way to subvert your control. Once I unlock the secret of immortality from your DNA, I will finally—what is that?" The mad scientist had noticed the imp phasing through the hull of the Anchor.

"Huh? A switch. Wonder what it does?" they heard the devil say in a tiny yet magnified voice.

"Falcon, no! What have you done? Familiar, get away from that machine!" Alucard shouted.

Too late. The Death Anchor detonated. Fusion Strength the robot had not yet traveled very far when the blast took it. It caught fire and immediately collapsed into a pile of spare parts.

On the edge of the blast radius, the shockwave hit Falcon hard enough he blacked out. Coming to, the imp flapped in circles over his head. "Awesome," it squealed.

Beside him, Alucard sipped a healing potion. He handed one to Falcon, who slammed it down, barely noticing the awful taste.

"Zoda's machine was a modified experimental missile. He'd never noticed the self-destruct mechanism, or knew that it remained active. I read about it in his file during my tenure with the Feds."

"Never know when trivia might come in handy," said Falcon, groaning. He spat out bloody phlegm and managed to regain his feet.

The starfighter battle had run its course. Samus swooped down on the Urwing from above, ramming Jody hard enough to send her spinning, ship's power failing. Thankfully the Mute City track was sturdy enough to catch the relatively lightweight craft without shattering. This time everyone had a chance to jump clear of the rolling shockwave, except Daigoroh, who settled for climbing atop of the Neo Blue Falcon.

Dracula ignored everything. He had received his final soul from Zoda.

They found 'Shadow Lord' stooped over the spell circle. The runes were no longer animated, just a smeary patch of scribbles. Over it lay a human woman, blonde and fair, in clothes centuries out of fashion. She opened her eyes and took her first breath.

Falcon didn't think she was a vampire—there was a blush to her cheeks and her aura didn't feel at all predatory. He didn't have to ask who she was. The vampires told him.

"My dearest love, welcome back," said Dracula in a hushed voice.

"Mother. I…" Alucard sunk to his knees, reaching out to her.

"The whole time, you just wanted to bring dead family back?" Falcon asked, almost too furious to breathe. "Could've just told me. I would've helped."

No one seemed to hear him.

"This cannot be. This is… Is it really her?" asked Alucard. All the steel and bristling accusation had left his voice. With those constants removed, he sounded like a stranger.

"I… I've been dead, haven't I?" Lisa Tepes asked. She began to look around, eyes wide as she tried to process all she was seeing.

"This is the age you were born for." Dracula rubbed her back, helping her to sit up. "It has its evils, as all ages do, but it is a time of reason. Of science and progress and light. Oh, there will be so much to catch you up on, but what's most important to know now is that you and I are free. Enlightenment has triumphed over ignorance and—what is wrong? My love!"

A fit of hard coughing seized Lisa. Her face and neck flushed first red, then a sickly gray. She staggered, fell. Dracula muttered spells while Alucard fumbled with potions.

Falcon watched, helpless. The might of the Falcon was in overcoming challenge, in fighting and protecting. It could not undo certain death. Anyone living in Mute City did so on a diet of poison, swimming every day through a steam bath of hyper-viruses that would slay within hours those lacking immunity. This poor woman had been resurrected from a cleaner era with no preparation for modern Earth's record-setting toxicity.

Lisa's throat closed. Jaws gaped, no sound escaped. The arteries and veins in her neck ran black.

"This should not be happening! I have made a mistake." Dracula pulled scrolls by the reams from his cape, red eyes dim with terror.

Lisa convulsed, twice. And then she lay still.

Alucard sat down with a graceless flop, face blank. Dracula shot to his feet, threw back his head, and let loose a howl that made even Falcon's hairs stand on end and the sweat freeze against his skin. Half the population of Mute City would, in years to come, claim to remember exactly where they were and what they were doing when they heard that bottomless bleak cry of despair.

It was not his grief to bear. All the same, Falcon felt weighed down and scraped out.

Dracula did not weep, not even with tears of blood. He had run dry a long time ago. He looked to Falcon, a plea in his eyes. With a grim nod, Falcon hauled back his arm, then let fly with the Falcon Punch. Full power.


End file.
